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A -MONSTER 
-  HEROISM  - 


RICHARD -BARRY 


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PORT    ARTHUR 


From  a  painting  by  Massanovich 


From  Every body^ s  Maga-x^ine^  by  permission 


GOING  INTO  ACTION 

Out  from  the  maize,  on  a  dog  trot,  springs  a  battalion,  pushing 

across  the  winnowed  terraces,  over  the  stubble.      Scientific 

fanatics,  they,  pressing  on  up  to  the  griddle  of  death. 


PORT  ARTHUR 


A  MONSTER 
HEROISM 


BY 

RICHARD    BARRY 


Illustrations  from  Photographs 
taken  on  the  Held  by  the  Author 


NEW    YORK 

MOFFAT,   YARD   &   COMPANY 

1905 


Copyright,  1905,  by 
Moffat,  Yard  &  Company 

PublisJud  April,  igoj 


=^i7.: 


0 


TO 
FREMONT   OLDER 


Grateful  acknowledgment  of  permission  to  reprint  some 
of  the  articles  and  photographs  which  enter,  with  additional 
new  material,  into  the  redaction  of  this  volume  is  made  to 
the  Century  Magazine,  Everybody's  Magazine,  Collier's 
Weekly,  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  the  Scientific  Ameri- 
can, the  London  Fortnightly  Review  and  Westminster 
Gazette,  the  Paris  L'lllustration  and  Le  Monde  Illustre, 
and  the  London  Illustrated  News,  Black  and  White,  Sphere 
and  Graphic,  in  which  journals  they  in  part  originally  ap- 
peared. The  reproduction  of  the  frontispiece  in  oils  by 
Mazzanovich,  redrawn  from  Mr.  Barry's  snapshot  on 
the  field,  is  here  made  by  courtesy  of  Everybody's  Maga- 
zine. 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE , 

PAGE 

The  Siege  at  a  Glance  15 

INTRODUCTORY 

The  Investment,  Siege,  and  Capture  of  Port 

Arthur  17 

CHAPTER  I 

The  City  of  Silence  33 

CHAPTER  II 
The  Invisible  Army  40 

CHAPTER  III 
Two  Pictures  of  War — A  Glance  Back  67 

CHAPTER  IV 
The  Japanese  Kitchener  81 


CHAPTER  V 

Camp 

7 


108 


8  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  VI 

PAGE 

203-Meter  Hill  ii8 


CHAPTER  VH 
A  Son  of  the  Soil  I42 

CHAPTER  VHI 
The  Bloody  Angle  152 

CHAPTER  IX 
A  Battle  in  the  Storm  164 

CHAPTER  X 
The  Cremation  of  a  General  183 

CHAPTER  XI 
The  General's  Pet  igi 

CHAPTER  XII 
Courting  Death  Under  the  Forts  198 

CHAPTER  XIII 
From  Kitten  to  Tiger  211 

CHAPTER  XIV 
Scientific  Fanatics  234 


CONTENTS  9 

CHAPTER  XV 

PAGE 

Japan's  Grand  Old  Man  ^53 

CHAPTER  XVI 
The  Cost  of  Taking  Port  Arthur  276 


CHAPTER  XVH 
A  Contemporary  Epic 

CHAPTER  XVHI 

The  New  Siege  Warfare 

EPILOGUE 
The  Downfall 


289 


316 


339 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

OPPOSITE 
PAGE 

Going  into  Action.  From  a  Painting  by  Massanovich. 
Out  from  the  maize,  on  a  dog  trot,  springs  a 
battalion,  across  the  terraces,  over  the  stubble, 
these  Scientific  Fanatics  press  on,  up  the  Griddle  of 
Death Frontispiece 

Richard  Barry  and  Frederick  Villiers.  They  were  mess- 
mates during  the  siege.  Mr.  Villiers,  the  veteran 
war  artist  of  seventeen  campaigns,  was  dean  of  the 
War  Correspondents  at  Port  Arthur.  The  photo- 
graph shows  them  before  their  Dalny  home  ...     34 

Starting  for  Port  Arthur.     Reserve  regiment  leaving 

Dalny  for  the  firing  line,  eighteen  miles  away  .     .     46 

General  Baron  Nogi,  Commander  of  the  Third  Imperial 
Japanese  Army,  studying  the  Defenses  of  Port 
Arthur  in  his  Manchurian  Garden  in  the  Willow 
Tree  Village 62 

General  Baron  Kodama,  Chief  of  the  Japanese  Staff, 

standing  on  his  door  step 84 

Bo-o-om!  Discharge  of  the  Japanese  11 -inch  mortar 
during  the  Grand  Bombardment  of  October  29th, 
This  gun  stood  a  mile  and  a  half  from  Port  Arthur 
and  is  shown  firing  into  the  Two  Dragon  Redoubt. 
The  vibration  made  a  clear  photograph  impossible  1 12 

The  Hyposcope.  Lieutenant  Oda  looking  from  203- 
Meter  Hill  through  the  hyposcope  at  the  Russian 
fleet  in  the  new  harbor  at  Port  Arthur  .     .     .     .120 

II 


12  ILLUSTRATIONS 

OPPOSITE 
PAGE 

Orphans.  Driven  from  home  by  shells  which  killed 
their  father  and  mother,  these  brothers  tramped 
from  camp  to  camp  selling  eggs 148 

Human  Barnacles.  Clinging  to  the  bases  of  the 
forts,  like  barnacles  to  a  ship,  these  sturdy  Japanese 
existed  in  wretched  quarters  throughout  the  sum- 
mer, autumn  and  half  the  winter 160 

Ammunition    for    the    Front 180 

How  They  Got  in.  Eighteen  miles  of  these  terminal 
trenches  were  dug  through  the  plain  before  the 
Russian  forts 202 

The  Last  Word.  The  officer  is  giving  last  instructions 
to  his  men  before  the  Grand  Assault  of  September 
2 1  St.  This  photograph  was  taken  in  the  front 
Parallel,  300  yards  from  the  Cock's  Comb  Fort  .  222 

Preparing  for  Death.  A  superstition  holds  that  the 
Japanese  soldier  who  dies  dirty  finds  no  place  among 
the  Shinto  shades;  so,  before  going  into  action,  every 
soldier   changes    his    linen,  as    this    one    is    doing.  241 

A  map   of   Port  Arthur.     Showing   the   defenses  and 

the  direction  of  the  Japanese  attack 281 

Home.  The  shack,  800  yards  from  the  firing  line,  occu- 
pied for  three  months  by  the  fighting  General 
Oshima,  Commander  of  the  Ninth  Division  .     .     .  290 

Plunder.  Showing  Adjutant  Hori,  Secretary  to  General 
Oshima,  standing  near  plunder  taken  from  the 
captured  Turban   Fort 290 

In  action.  Loading  a  4.7  gun  of  the  ordinary  field  artil- 
lery during  the  assault  of  September  20th  .     .     .312 

The  Osacca  Babe.  Loading  the  11 -inch  coast  defense 
motar  during  the  general  bombardment  of  October 
29th,  two  miles  from  Port  Arthur 332 


Cloud  girt  among  her  mountains, 

Nippon,  in  wrath  as  of  old. 
Unleashes  her  young  warrior ; 

Lo,  the  world's  champion  behold! 

He  comes  abysmal  as  chaos, 
A  boy  with  the  smile  of  a  girl, 

Tumbles  his  man  with  a  handshake, 
And  spits  him  up  with  a  twirl. 

Nourished  on  rice  and  a  dewdrop. 
He  fans  him  to  sleep  with  a  star, 

Believing  the  fathers  of  Nippon 
Created  things  as  they  are. 

So  up  and  across  the  sliort  ocean 

He  sails  to  the  land  of  can't, 
To  keep  up  the  name  of  his  fathers 

And  smash  down  the  things  that  shan't. 

Ah!  What  a  freshet  of  glory 

When  into  the  noisy  fray 
Against  a  shaggy  old  giant 

Comes  this  youth  asmile  and  gay! 


PREFACE 

THE    SIEGE   AT   A   GLANCE 

The  sea  attack  on  Port  Arthur  began  on 
February  9th,  1904,  at  noon.  The  land  iso- 
lation occurred  on  May  26th,  when  the  Second 
Army,  under  General  Oku,  took  Nanshan  Hill. 
Four  grand  series  of  Russian  defenses  from 
Nanshan  down  the  peninsula  were  then  taken 
by  the  Japanese.  The  capture  of  Taikushan  on 
August  9th,  of  Shokushan  two  days  later,  and  of 
Takasakiyama  the  following  day,  drove  the  Rus- 
sians into  their  permanent  works.  The  real  siege 
of  Port  Arthur  began,  thus,  on  August  12th,  and 
continued  for  four  months  and  nineteen  days. 

The  failure  of  the  first  grand  assault,  continu- 
ing seven  days  from  August  19th,  forced  Nogi 
and  his  army  to  go  slowly  about  the  terrific  job 
of  digging  a  way  into  the  fortress.  In  the  fol- 
lowing four  months  there  occurred  six  more 
grand  assaults,  the  periods  between  them  being 
occupied  in  mining,  sapping,  and  engineering. 

i5 


i6  PREFACE 

What  was  known  as  the  second  assault  was  made 
from  September  19th  to  25th;  the  third  from 
October  29th  to  November  ist;  the  fourth  from 
November  28th  to  30th;  the  fifth  from  Decem- 
ber 4th  to  9th;  the  sixth  from  December  i8th  to 
20th;  the  final  assault  from  December  28th  to 
31st.  The  morning  of  January  ist,  1905,  General 
Stoessel,  the  Russian  commander,  asked  for 
terms  of  capitulation,  and  the  following  day 
these  terms  were  submitted  and  ratified. 

The  grand  strategy  of  the  Japanese  opera- 
tions was  simple.  It  comprehended  one  brief 
design:  to  demonstrate  on  the  west,  where 
203-Meter  Hill  is,  while  the  infantry  and  the 
heavy  ordnance  smashed  the  Russian  right  cen- 
ter, where  are  located  the  principal  Russian 
forts,  Keekwan  (Cock's  Comb),  Ehrlung  (Two 
Dragons),  and  Panlung  (Eternal  Dragon). 
Four  and  a  half  months  of  sapping,  mining, 
bombarding,  and  hand-to-hand  fighting,,  than 
which  history  holds  no  record  of  more  desperate 
contest,  won  the  forts  of  the  Cock's  Comb  and 
the  Two  Dragons  for  the  Japanese.  The  fall  of 
the  Two  Dragons  on  December  31st  brought 
Stoessel  to  his  knees. 


INTRODUCTORY 

THE  INVESTMENT,  SEIGE,  AND  CAPTURE  OF 

PORT  ARTHUR 

In  all  the  long  history  of  military  exploits, 
there  is  not  one  that  can  compare,  in  point  of 
difficulties  surmounted,  with  the  reduction  of 
Port  Arthur.  That  this  fortress  should  have 
been  taken  by  assault  entitles  the  Japanese  opera- 
tions to  rank  with  the  finest  work  done  by  any 
army  in  any  age;  that  it  should  have  been  taken 
in  five  months  from  the  day  on  which  the  in- 
vestment was  completed  (the  day  on  which  the 
Russians  were  driven  into  their  permanent 
works)  is  an  exploit  which  has  never  been  ap- 
proached. For  Port  Arthur's  defenses  had  been 
laid  out  on  the  most  modern  plan.  Nature, 
moreover,  has  cast  the  topographical  features  of 
the  place  on  lines  that  are  admirably  suited  to 
defense.  The  harbor  is  surrounded  by  two  ap- 
proximately concentric  ranges  of  hills,  the  crests 
of  which  are  broken  by  a  series  of  successive 

n 


i8  INTRODUCTORY 

conical  elevations.  The  engineers  took  the  sug- 
gestion thus  offered,  and  ran  two  concentric 
lines  of  fortification  around  the  city,  building 
massive  masonry  forts  on  the  highest  summits, 
and  connecting  them  by  continuous  defensive 
works.  The  inner  line  of  the  forts  lay  at  an 
average  distance  of  one  mile  from  the  city,  and 
constituted  the  main  line  of  permanent  defense; 
the  outer  line,  at  an  average  distance  of  a  mile 
and  a  half  from  Port  Arthur.  Beyond  these 
again  were  the  semi-permanent  defenses.  The 
positions  of  the  various  forts  were  chosen  in 
such  a  relation  to  each  other  that  they  were 
mutually  supporting — that  is  to  say,  if  any  one 
were  captured  by  the  enemy,  it  could  not  be  held 
because  it  was  dominated  by  the  fire  from  the 
neighboring  forts;  and,  indeed,  it  often  hap- 
pened that  the  Japanese  seized  positions  from 
which  they  were  driven  in  this  way. 

In  the  majority  of  cases  the  slope  of  the  hills 
was  very  steep,  and  what  was  even  worse  for  the 
Japanese,  smooth  and  free  from  cover;  so  that 
if  an  attempt  were  made  to  rush  the  works,  a 
charge  would  have  to  be  made  over  a  broad 
glacis,  swept  by  the  shrapnel,  machine  gun,  and 


INTRODUCTORY  19 

rifle  fire  of  the  defenders.  Once  across  the  dan- 
ger zone,  the  attack  was  confronted  by  the  mas- 
sive masonry  parapets  of  the  fort,  over  which 
the  survivors,  cut  down  to  a  mere  handful,  would 
be  powerless  to  force  an  entrance. 

The  defense  of  Port  Arthur,  however,  did  not 
stop  at  the  outer  line  of  fortifications,  but  ex- 
tended no  less  than  eighteen  miles  to  the  north- 
ward, to  a  point  where  the  peninsula  on  which 
Port  Arthur  is  situated  narrows  to  a  width  of 
three  miles.  Here  a  range  of  conical  hills,  not 
unlike  some  of  those  at  Port  Arthur,  reaches 
from  sea  to  sea;  and  these  had  been  ringed  with 
intrenchments  for  troops  and  masked  (or  hid- 
den) emplacements  for  artillery.  Between  Nan- 
shan  and  Port  Arthur  the  Russians  had  built 
four  more  lines  of  intrenchments,  reaching  from 
sea  to  sea,  all  very  strong  and  admirably  suited 
for  defense.  Now  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that 
all  this  wonderful  net-work  of  fortifications, 
strong  by  nature  of  the  ground,  strong  by  virtue 
of  the  great  skill  and  care  with  which  it  had 
been  built,  was  distinguished  from  all  other 
previous  defensive  works  by  the  fact  that  in  this 
fortress,  for  the  first  time,  were  utilized  all  those 


20  INTRODUCTORY 

terrible  agencies  of  war  which  the  rapid  ad- 
vance of  science  in  the  past  quarter  of  a  century 
has  rendered  available.  Among  these  we  may 
mention  rapid-fire  guns,  machine  guns,  smoke- 
less powder,  artillery  of  high  velocity  and  great 
range,  high  explosive  shells,  the  magazine  rifle, 
the  telescopic  sight  giving  marvelous  accuracy 
of  fire,  the  range-finder  giving  instantaneously 
the  exact  distance  of  the  enemy,  the  searchlight, 
the  telegraph  and  the  telephone,  starlight  bombs, 
barbed-wire  entanglements,  and  a  dozen  other 
inventions,  all  of  which  were  deemed  sufficient, 
when  applied  to  such  stupendous  fortifications 
as  those  of  Port  Arthur,  to  render  them  ab- 
solutely impregnable. 

The  Russians  believed  them  to  be  so — cer- 
tainly the  indomitable  Stoessel  did.  And  well 
he  might;  for  there  was  no  record  in  history  of 
any  race  of  fighters,  at  least  in  modern  times, 
that  could  face  such  death-dealing  weapons, 
and  not  melt  away  so  swiftly  before  their  fury 
as  to  be  swept  away  in  defeat. 

But  a  new  type  of  fighter  has  arisen,  as  the 
sequel  was  to  tell. 

On  February  8,  1904,  the  first  blow  fell  upon 


INTRODUCTORY  21 

Port  Arthur  in  that  famous  night  attack  by  the 
torpedo  boats.  On  February  9th  occurred  the 
engagement  between  the  remnant  of  the  Russian 
fleet  and  the  Japanese  fleet  under  Admiral  Togo 
which  ended  in  the  Russian  retreat  into  the  har- 
bor and  the  closing  of  Port  Arthur  by  sea. 

On  May  26th  the  Japanese  Second  Army, 
which  had  been  landed  at  Petsewo  Bay,  attacked 
the  first  line  of  defense  at  Nanshan,  eighteen 
miles  north  of  Port  Arthur,  and  gave  an  ink- 
ling of  the  mettle  of  the  Japanese  troops  by  cap- 
turing the  position  in  a  frontal  attack.  The 
Japanese  pushed  on  to  Port  Arthur  and  there 
followed,  in  quick  succession,  a  series  of  bloody 
struggles  at  the  successive  lines  of  defense  in 
which  the  Japanese  would  not  be  denied.  The 
fiercest  fight  took  place  at  the  capture  of  a 
double  height,  Kenshan  and  Weuteughshan, 
which  Stoessel  re-attacked  vainly  for  three  days, 
losing  three  times  as  many  men  as  were  lost  orig- 
inally in  the  attempt  to  hold  the  position. 

On  May  29th  Dalny  was  occupied,  and  became 
the  base  of  the  besieging  army.  A  railway  runs 
from  Dalny  for  three  miles  to  a  junction  with 
the  main  line  from  the  north  to  Port  Arthur. 


22  INTRODUCTORY 

On  August  9th  to  nth  the  outlying  semi- 
permanent works  Taikushan  and  Shokushan, 
lying  about  three  and  one-half  miles  from  Port 
Arthur,  were  taken,  and  the  Russians  driven  in 
to  their  permanent  positions. 

The  army  detailed  for  the  capture  of  Port 
Arthur  was  60,000  strong;  Stoessel  at  the  date 
of  the  battle  of  Nanshan  probably  had  35,000 
men. 

Encouraged  by  their  uninterrupted  success 
in  capturing  Russian  intrenchments  by  dashing 
frontal  attack,  the  Japanese,  particularly  after 
their  brilliant  success  of  August  9th  to  nth, 
believed  that  they  could  storm  the  main  defenses 
in  like  manner.  They  hurled  themselves  against 
the  Russian  right  center  in  a  furious  attack  upon 
the  line  of  forts  stretching  from  the  railway 
around  the  easterly  side  of  the  town  to  the  sea. 
For  seven  days  they  battled  furiously.  But  the 
wave  of  conquest  that  had  flowed  over  four  lines 
of  defense,  broke  utterly  against  the  fifth;  and 
after  a  continuous  struggle,  carried  on  day  and 
night,  beneath  sunlight,  moon,  and  searchlight, 
they  retired  completely  baffled,  with  an  awful 
casualty  list  of  25,000  men. 


INTRODUCTORY  23 

On  September  ist  the  Japanese,  finding  that 
they  could  not  take  Port  Arthur  by  assault,  set- 
tled down  to  reduce  it  by  an  engineering  siege. 
This  latter  was  carried  on  by  means  of  "sap- 
ping and  mining,"  supported  by  heavy  bom- 
bardment, its  object  being  to  shake  the  defense 
by  terrific  artillery  fire,  blow  up  the  parapets 
and  other  defenses  by  subterreanean  mines,  and 
capture  the  fortress  by  fierce  assaults  delivered 
from  concealed  trenches  close  to  the  fortifica- 
tions. Sapping  and  mining  may  be  described  as 
a  method  of  attack  by  tunneling.  The  Japanese 
found  that  they  could  not  get  into  the  forts  by 
a  rush  above  ground,  so  they  determined  to  bur- 
row in  below  ground.  The  main  attack  was 
directed  against  the  line  of  forts  to  the  east  of 
the  city,  or  the  Russian  right  center.  The  first 
operation  was  to  cut  a  deep  trench,  not  less 
than  six  feet  in  depth  and  a  dozen  or  more  feet 
in  width,  roughly  parallel  with  the  line  of  forts, 
and  at  a  distanceof  about  1,000  yards  therefrom. 
From  this  trench  three  lines  of  zigzag  trenches 
were  dug  in  the  direction  of  the  principal  forts 
of  Ehrlung,  Keekwan,  and  Panlung.  These 
trenches  were  about  six  feet  deep  (deep  enough 


24  INTRODUCTORY 

to  hide  the  sappers  from  view)  and  eight  feet 
wide  (wide  enough  to  allow  the  troops  to  march 
to  the  assault  four  abreast).  The  zigzag  con- 
sisted of  an  alternate  approach  and  parallel,  the 
former  extending  diagonally  toward  the  forti- 
fication, the  latter  parallel  with  it.  The  angle 
of  the  diagonal  approaches  was  always  carefully 
mapped  out  by  the  engineers,  and  was  so  laid 
with  reference  to  the  enemy's  forts  that  it  could 
neither  be  seen  nor  reached  by  shell  fire.  The 
digging  was  done  chiefly  at  night,  and  the  soil 
was  carried  back  through  the  excavated  trenches 
in  gabions  and  on  stretchers,  and  dumped  out  of 
sight  of  the  enemy.  As  the  parallels  were  ad- 
vanced across  the  valley  or  level  spaces,  they 
were  roofed  at  intervals,  with  planks  covered 
with  soil  and  grass,  so  that  as  the  Russians 
looked  out  toward  the  ravine  in  which  the  army 
was  supposed  to  be  encamped,  there  was  noth- 
ing to  indicate  that  the  enemy  was  cutting  a 
series  of  covered  roadways,  right  up  to  the  base 
of  the  forts  themselves.  Of  course  in  many  cases 
the  trenches  were  located,  and  desperate  night 
sorties  were  made  in  the  endeavor  to  break  up 
the  work.     But  it  went  remorselessly  forward. 


INTRODUCTORY  25 

When  the  foot  of  the  fortified  slopes  was 
reached,  a  second  great  parallel,  extending 
around  the  whole  face  of  the  fortified  eastern 
front,  was  cut — this  latter  for  the  purpose  of 
assembling  the  troops  for  the  final  dash  upon 
the  forts.  From  this  parallel  the  Japanese  cut 
tunnels  straight  through  the  hills  until  they 
found  themselves  immediately  below  the  mas- 
sive parapets  of  such  forts  as  they  wished  to 
reach.  Here  cross  tunnels  were  cut,  parallel 
with  the  walls  and  immediately  below  them,  in 
which  tons  of  dynamite  were  placed  and  the 
wires  laid  ready  for  the  great  explosion — much 
of  this  being  done,  it  must  be  remembered,  en- 
tirely unknown  to  the  Russians,  secure  in  their 
great  fortifications  overhead.  The  work  of  the 
sappers  and  miners  was  now  complete. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  while  this  slow 
work  was  being  carried  on,  the  garrison  at  Port 
Arthur,  or  the  city  itself,  or  even  the  fleet  in  the 
harbor,  was  being  left  in  peace,  or  had  any  re- 
spite from  the  harassments  of  the  siege.  For  as 
soon  as  the  investment  was  complete,  the  Japa- 
nese erected  hidden  batteries  in  various  care- 
fully-selected positions,  until  they  had  no  less 


26  INTRODUCTORY 

than  300  guns  trained  against  the  city.  All  the 
furious  assaults  that  failed  so  disastrously  were 
preceded  by  bombardments,  the  like  of  which 
had  never  been  witnessed  in  the  history  of  the 
world.  These  batteries  consisted  of  regular 
siege  guns  of  from  5  inches  to  6  inches  caliber, 
a  large  number  of  naval  guns  of  4.7-inch  and  6- 
inch  caliber,  and  the  regular  field  ordnance  of 
the  three  divisions  and  two  independent  bri- 
gades composing  the  Third  Imperial  Army. 

By  far  the  most  formidable  pieces  used  in  the 
bombardment,  however,  were  the  powerful  11- 
inch  mortars,  which  were  mounted  in  batteries 
of  from  two  to  four  in  various  positions  behind 
the  ranges  of  hills  which  effectually  screened  the 
Japanese  from  Russian  observation.  The  pieces 
are  the  Japanese  latest  type  of  coast-defense 
mortars,  such  as  are  used  along  the  Straits  of 
Shimoneseki  and  about  the  Bay  of  Yezo.  They 
were  brought  by  sea  to  Dalny,  carried  by  rail- 
road for  a  distance  of  fifteen  miles  to  the  end  of 
the  track,  and  from  thence  were  hauled  by  hand 
over  special  tracks  laid  direct  to  the  emplace- 
ments. In  some  cases,  indeed,  the  guns  were 
dragged  on  rollers  through  the  sand,  as  many 


INTRODUCTORY  27 

as  800  men  being  required  to  haul  a  single  mor- 
tar; for  the  mortar  barrels,  without  the  carriage, 
weigh  eight  tons  apiece.  This  task  was  accom- 
plished under  fire,  in  rainy  weather,  and  in  the 
night,  to  the  accompaniment  of  bursting  shrap- 
nel and  other  discouragements  which  would 
have  daunted  a  less  dauntless  race.  Even  when 
the  selected  site  of  the  batteries  was  reached, 
every  one  of  the  eighteen  mortars  had  to  be 
placed  upon  a  concrete  foundation  eight  feet  in 
depth  and  eighteen  feet  in  diameter.  In  each 
case  an  excavation  had  to  be  dug,  the  concrete 
prepared  and  rammed  into  place,  the  heavy 
foundation  plates,  traversing  racks,  and  the  mas- 
sive gun  carriage,  weighing  much  more  than 
the  gun  itself,  erected  and  adjusted,  and  the 
whole  of  the  heavy  and  costly  piece  put  together 
with  the  greatest  nicety.  All  through  the  long 
months  in  which  the  sappers  and  miners  were 
cutting  their  trenches,  the  engineers  were  put- 
ting in  place  these  huge  mortars,  which  were  not 
originally  intended,  be  it  remembered,  for  such 
field  operations  as  these;  but  were  designed  for 
permanent  sea-coast  fortifications  around  the 
harbors  of  Japan. 


28  INTRODUCTORY 

The  mortar  itself  has  a  bore  of  28  centimeters, 
or  II  inches.  The  shells  are  designed  to  burst 
on  contact.  They  are  loaded  with  a  high  explo- 
sive designed  by  the  Japanese  Dr.  Shimose,  and 
corresponding  in  its  terrific  bursting  effects  to 
the  English  lyddite,  the  French  melinite,  and 
our  own  maximite.  Each  shell  weighs  500 
pounds.  Its  cost  is  $175,  and  the  cost  of  each 
discharge,  including  that  of  the  impelling 
power,  is  about  $400.  During  the  heavy  bom- 
bardments, each  gun  was  fired  once  every  eight 
minutes,  and  as  the  grand  bombardment  lasted 
in  every  case  about  four  hours,  the  cost  for  these 
mortar  batteries  alone  must  have  been  over 
$200,000,  and  for  the  whole  of  the  batteries,  in- 
cluding naval  guns,  machine  guns,  etc.,  the  cost 
of  each  bombardment  was  approximately  half 
a  million  dollars.  The  11 -inch  mortar  has  a 
maximum  range,  with  a  moderate  degree  of 
elevation,  of  seven  or  eight  miles;  but  as  none  of 
these  batteries  were  more  than  three  miles  dis- 
tant from  the  point  of  attack,  they  were  fired  at 
angles  of  as  great  as  sixty  degrees,  the  huge 
shells  hurtling  high  into  the  heavens,  passing 
over  two  ranges  of  hills,  and  falling  like  thun- 


INTRODUCTORY  29 

derbolts  out  of  the  blue  sky,  vertically  upon  the 
devoted  city. 

But  if  the  batteries  were  located  behind  hills 
that  entirely  shut  out  the  object  of  attack  from 
view,  how,  it  will  be  asked,  could  the  guns  be 
aimed  with  such  accuracy,  to  sink,  as  they  did, 
a  whole  fleet  of  warships,  one  by  one?  It  was  in 
this  way:  For  the  attack  of  stationary  objects 
such  as  forts,  docks,  buildings,  ships  at  anchor, 
etc.,  the  artillery  officers  were  provided  with  a 
map  of  the  whole  area  of  bombardment,  which 
was  laid  out  in  squares,  each  square  having  its 
own  number.  The  Japanese  having,  at  the  close 
of  the  Chinese  war,  been  in  possession  of  Port 
Arthur  themselves,  and  having  possessed  dur- 
ing the  past  few  years  an  excellent  bureau  of  in- 
telligence, knew  the  exact  location  of  every 
building  or  object  of  importance  in  and  around 
the  city.  Consequently,  when  the  artillery 
officers  were  directed  to  attack  a  building  in  a 
certain  square,  or  a  particular  fort,  they  knew 
exactly  what  angle  of  elevation  to  give  their 
gun,  and  how  far  to  traverse  it,  so  as  to  cause 
the  shell  to  fall  with  mathematical  accuracy 
upon  the  particular  object  to  be  hit. 


30  INTRODUCTORY 

The  attack  upon  the  warships,  however,  was 
another  proposition,  for  they  could  be,  and 
were,  shifted,  from  time  to  time.  To  make  sure 
of  hitting  them,  it  was  necessary  to  have  some 
direct  line  of  vision.  The  Japanese  knew  that 
such  a  line  of  vision  could  be  obtained  from  the 
top  of  a  hill  to  the  west  of  the  city  known  as  203- 
Meter  Hill — the  Russians  knew  it,  too.  Hence 
that  awful  struggle  for  possession  of  this  hill, 
which  cost  so  many  thousands  of  lives.  The 
Japanese  won  the  position.  When  they  had 
taken  it,  they  placed  observers  provided  with  the 
hyposcope — a  telescope  that  enables  the  ob- 
server to  observe  the  surrounding  country  with 
out  exposing  himself  above  the  surrounding 
parapet — upon  the  summit,  in  suitable  positions, 
and  held  the  hill  with  sufficient  force  to  prevent 
its  being  retaken.  The  batteries  were  then  trained 
at  the  individual  warships,  and  the  effects  of  the 
shells  was  telephoned  from  203-Meter  Hill  to 
the  various  batteries,  and  the  errors  corrected, 
according  as  they  were  long,  short,  or  wide,  un- 
til the  huge  shells  commenced  to  drop  with 
unerring  accuracy  down  through  the  decks  and 
out  through  the  bottom  of  the  doomed  warships. 


INTRODUCTORY  31 

The  ships  tried  to  escape  ob&ervation  by  hiding 
on  the  outside  of  the  harbor  behind  the  Tiger's 
Tail  hills,  and  in  a  cove  behind  Golden  Hill; 
but  there  was  no  escape,  and  ultimately  every 
ship  of  the  squadron  was  sunk. 

That  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  The 
1 1 -inch  batteries  when  directed  at  the  forts  tore 
gaping  holes  in  the  parapets,  and  according  to 
the  testimony  of  General  Stoessel,  they  were 
simply  irresistible.  One  by  one,  after  furious 
bombardments,  the  walls  of  the  great  forts  were 
blown  up  by  the  explosion  of  the  subterranean 
mines  that  had  been  laid  by  the  sappers  and 
miners,  and  the  Japanese  massed  in  readiness 
for  the  attack  in  the  inner  parallels  swept  in 
through  the  wide  gaps  thus  formed,  and  seized 
the  fortifications,  from  which,  a  few  months  be- 
fore, they  had  been  swept  back  in  terrible  and 
crushing  defeat. 


PORT     A  RTH  U  R 


Chapter  One 

THE   CITY   OF    SILENCE 

OALNY,  August  3d:  Guns  have  blown 
their  thunder  to  us  distantly  all  the 
afternoon.  The  sounds  boom  a  low 
thud  with  monotonous  distinctness. 
Lounging  on  the  taffrail  of  a  small  cargo 
steamer  in  Dalny  Bay  they  strike  those  of  us  who 
are  innocent  of  war,  who  have  never  felt  the 
thrill,  the  halt  and  the  plunge  of  battle  as  tame; 
almost  without  interest.  In  a  California  cot- 
tage, a  summer's  night,  a  mile  from  the  seashore 
I  have  listened  before  now  to  the  surf  climb  up 
and  lay  down  upon  the  beach  with  the  same 
heavy  lust. 

This  sound  has  in  it,  too,  something  of  nature's 
immanence  and  majesty;  an  elemental  force  of 
decay  and  a  primal  grandeur  of  progress.     Yet 

33 


34  PORT   ARTHUR 

it  is  ominously  deadly.  The  sky  above  is  a  per- 
fect azure,  the  sea  below  a  perfect  turquoise,  the 
town  beyond  a  haze  of  tranquil  ocher.  We  are 
lying  among  w^arships,  but  they  are  silent.  Be- 
yond us  a  troopship  is  unloading  a  thousand  con- 
scripts for  the  trenches,  but  they  are  silent. 
The  city  of  Dalny  is  beautiful — and  silent. 
Silence  everywhere.  Then  comes  that  boom — • 
silence — boom — boom — boom !  The  captain 
steps  up  and  speaks  a  few  words.  We  begin  to 
realize  that  we  are  listening  to  siege  guns  pound- 
ing the  life  out  of  a  doomed  city.  The  captain 
waves  an  arm  toward  a  point  of  land  to  be  seen 
faintly  through  a  glass.  Only  half  a  day's 
walk  that  way  and  beyond — to  the  southeast — 
lies  Port  Arthur. 

We  are  ten.  Yesterday  there  landed  here 
eight  military  observers — four  British,  one 
Spaniard,  one  German,  one  Chilean  and  one 
American.  These  eighteen  have  been  assigned 
by  the  Japanese  Government  to  the  army  now 
operating  against  Port  Arthur.  The  eighteen 
are  the  only  Occidentals  who  will  see  the  siege. 

Four  days  ago  we  left  Moji  in  a  transport 
steamer,  the  Oyomaru.     The  ship's  name  tells 


WAR  CO  RRKS  PON  DENTS 

Richard  Barry  ami  Fredeiic  Villicis.     Mr.  Villiers  fin  knit  koi  i)m  kers) 

tlie  veteran  of  seventeen  t  anipaijjjns,  was  Dean  of  the 

War  Correspondents  liefore  Port  Artliur. 


THE    CITY    OF   SILENCE        35 

of  the  trip — "The  prosperous  ocean  ship." 
We  might  have  come  across  a  millpond  so  placid 
was  our  journey.  Yesterday  afternoon  we 
sighted  a  line  of  sand  piles  and  verdure-covered 
rocks  rising  out  of  the  ocean.  We  were  about  to 
steam  past  when  a  flash  of  sunlight,  like  a  gay 
salute  from  a  boy's  pocket  mirror,  struck  our 
bow.  It  was  the  heliograph.  The  Oyomaru 
put  to  port  and  slid  in  under  the  lee  of  the 
islands.  As  we  came  up  an  old  gray  battleship 
veered  on  her  anchor  to  give  us  room  and  as  we 
turned  her  bows  we  floated  in  among  the  fleet, 
dragging  at  its  chains,  steam  up,  waiting  to 
dash  at  the  word  to  Port  Arthur,  four  miles 
away. 

We  were  at  the  Elliot  Islands,  inhabited  by 
fisher  folk  and  seized  by  the  Japanese  for  a  naval 
base.  Around  us  lay  the  silence  of  death, 
though  twenty  men-of-war  were  within  gun 
shot.  Only  the  spiral  upshoot  of  smoke  from 
fifty  stacks  and  the  heave  and  push  of  tide-driven 
fighting  craft  gave  evidence  of  the  tensity  we 
were  in.  From  the  highest  hill  a  thin  shaft, 
like  a  straw  in  the  wind,  cut  against  the  sunset. 
There  lay  the  wireless-telegraph  station  to  which 


36  PORT    ARTHUR 

are  flashed  signals  from  the  torpedo  craft  and 
cruisers  guarding  the  mouth  of  Port  Arthur. 

At  dawn  we  left  the  fleet,  silent,  with  that 
lazy  curl  of  smoke  uplifting  its  ragged  fringe. 
On  for  five  hours  we  came  at  ten  knots  until  we 
rounded  a  cape  and  turned  into  Talienwan  Bay. 
In  the  farther  curve,  as  a  pebble  in  a  sling,  lay 
Dalny. 

"  It  looks  like  Greece;  the  Piraeus  with  Mar- 
athon in  the  distance,"  said  Frederic  Villiers. 
I  thought  of  another  place;  San  Diego  Bay  with 
Point  Loma  curving  a  crescent  out  of  the 
Pacific. 

The  Russians  came  here  to  stay;  that  is  plain. 
We  can  see  miles  of  brick  buildings,  some  five 
stories  high.  The  great  brick  chimney  of  an 
electric  light  plant  towers  above  the  city.  The 
public  buildings,  hospitals,  schools  and  rail- 
road station  are  as  fine  as  those  of  Los  Angeles. 
Costly  villas  with  spacious  grounds,  coolie  cov- 
ered, stretch  back  under  the  hillsides.  A  zoo- 
logical garden  of  several  dozen  acres  can  be  seen 
off  at  the  left.  There  are  miles  of  new  wharves 
cemented  and  built  with  stone.  Two  piers 
strike  out  four  hundred  yards  into  the  harbor, 


THE    CITY    OF   SILENCE        37 

locked  down  by  solid  masonry.  A  breakwater 
half  a  mile  long  stretches  at  our  stern. 

Ten  years  ago  could  the  Romanoff  seated  in 
the  Winter  Palace  at  Petersburg,  placing  a 
finger  on  the  map  of  western  Asia,  as  he  said : 
"Let  there  be  a  Russian  city  here;" — could  he 
possibly  have  foreseen  to-day? — the  Russians 
gone,  half  of  the  magnificent  city  burned,  the 
safe  and  beautiful  harbor  filled  with  Japanese 
transports  and  men-of-war,  the  railway  held  for 
a  Japanese  line  of  advance  and  Russian  prestige 
on  the  Manchurian  littoral  smashed  like  a  rot- 
ten egg! 

This  afternoon  we  have  found  how  desperate 
the  silence  is.  For  mere  m.ovement  after  three 
days  on  shipboard  and  five  months  solitary  con- 
finement in  Tokyo  we  asked  to  launch  the  ship's 
boat  and  row  about  the  harbor.  The  captain 
assented.  Eight  of  us  got  in  and  started  off 
among  the  transports.  Next  to  us  was  a  hospital 
ship  painted  white  with  a  green  stripe  running 
across  her  middle  like  an  abdominal  bandage 
round  an  invalid.  "  Looks  as  enticing  as  a 
cocktail  before  dinner,"  said  one  of  the  boys. 
It  did  have  a  cool  glance  that  must  be  grateful 


38  PORT   ARTHUR 

to  a  wounded  man  just  in  from  the  battlefield. 
We  but  turned  her  bows  when  we  ran  into  a 
warship — a  gunboat  of  the  third  class.  She  was 
in  black,  with  red  stripes  about  her  portholes 
and  stanchions.  The  gun  carriages  were  out- 
lined in  red — stuff  put  on  to  keep  off  rust.  Just 
beyond  the  gunboat  lay  a  torpedo  destroyer — 
the  most  devilish  craft  that  floats — long,  thin, 
low,  with  four  thick  funnels  above  engines  like 
a  bull's  lungs. 

As  we  passed  the  gunboat  a  bugle  piped  "  to 
quarters"  and  several  officers  turned  their 
glasses  on  us.  But  on  we  went,  gay  with  the 
freedom  of  the  lark,  and  stretching  our  ship- 
bound  muscles  against  the  buffeting  of  the 
choppy  sea.  Yonder  lay  the  torpedo  boats  and 
brother  destroyers  and  beyond  an  armored 
cruiser  of  the  second  class.  The  cruiser  piped 
"  to  quarters "  and  more  glasses  were  leveled 
on  us. 

About  this  time  the  coxswain  turned  her  nose 
to  the  Oyomaru,  but  before  we  got  there  the 
ship's  sampan  glided  alongside,  the  mate  in  her 
alive,  jabbering  Nipponese  and  gesticulating  to- 
ward the  ship.     We  hurried  back. 


THE    CITY    OF   SILENCE        39 

As  we  climbed  on  board  Villiers  yelled: 
"  You've  spoiled  it  now.  You'll  never  see  Port 
Arthur." 

Then  we  found  we  had  created  a  sensation — 
this  strange  boat  manned  by  eight  foreigners, 
appearing  in  broad  afternoon  in  the  harbor  of 
the  nearest  naval  base  to  the  scene  of  the  fleet's 
activities.  Two  warships  had  prepared  to  fire 
on  us  at  word  of  command  and  signaling  from 
the  fleet  to  the  shore  had  only  found  that  it  was 
*' supposed"  we  were  ''neutral  allies,"  but  that 
officially  we  could  not  be  recognized.  The  cap- 
tain was  reprimanded  and  we  were  told  to  keep 
close  to  the  ship  until  released.  Tokyo  had 
said  nothing  of  us  to  Dalny.  To-morrow  we 
will  be  released.  But  we  will  not  again  go 
about  the  harbor.  We  will  go  on  shore.  We 
will  have  ears  and  eyes,  but  no  legs  or  tongues. 


Chapter  Two 

THE    INVISIBLE   ARMY; 

DO-O-ZAN,  (the  Phoenix  Mountain) 
three  miles  from  and  looking  into 
Port  Arthur,  Sept.  14th:  Here  we 
are  with  the  Third  Imperial  Army 
waiting  for  Russia's  downfall  in  the  Far  East. 
With  her  fleet  gone,  Russia's  sea  power  has  van- 
ished. With  Kuropatkin  smashed  it  will  be 
another  year  before  she  can  have  a  great  army 
in  the  field.  So  now  there  remains  only  impreg- 
nable Port  Arthur  to  say  that  Russia  but  eight 
months  ago  held  all  Manchuria. 

Ten  of  us  are  privileged  to  follow  the  for- 
tunes of  the  army  of  investment.  We  alone  of 
eighty-four  war  correspondents  who  entered  the 
field  are  here  to  record  the  details  of  a  siege  that 
promises  to  go  down  in  history  with  Plevna  and 
Sebastopol.  At  the  present  time  I  may  tell  you 
only  of  how  the  army  lives  and  works,  and  what 

sensations  engulf  one  in  the  midst  of  this  ele- 

40 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY         41 

mental  contest  at  the  apex  of  a  world,  where  two 
civilizations  are  in  life  and  death  throes. 

Impregnable  is  the  word  for  the  line  of  forts 
confronting  us.  Military  authorities  innumera- 
ble have  predicted  it  would  never  be  taken  from 
a  white  soldiery,  although  Japan  ten  years  ago 
did  take  it,  in  a  single  day  of  fierce  assault,  from 
the  weakly  armed  and  poorly  trained  Chinese. 
But  through  seven  years  Russia  has  been  pre- 
paring for  what  she  faces  to-day — a  great  army 
of  veteran  troops  from  a  warlike  nation, 
equipped  for  scientific  fighting  and  officered  by 
men  trained  in  the  best  scliools  in  the  world. 
She  has  repaired  and  rebuilt  the  old  Chinese 
Wall  till  it  lies  across  the  back  of  the  city,  from 
sea  to  sea,  a  buttress  of  protection  and  menace, 
plentifully  loopholed  for  rifles  and  hung  at  in- 
tervals, like  huge  fobs  on  a  gigantic  chain,  with 
forts.  Every  natural  elevation  is  commanded 
by  a  battery,  and  every  weak  depression  built 
up  for  similar  defense.  Six- miles  from  sea  to 
sea,  convex  into  the  valley,  and  cutting  off  the 
apex  of  the  Liaotung  peninsula  as  a  conical  cake 
might  be  cut  by  a  spoon,  lies  this  bristling  line. 
Looking  at  it,  and  what  confronts  it  from  above, 


42  PORT    ARTHUR 

this  appears  as  grand  a  battlefield  as  the  mind 
can  conceive. 

The  mere  names  of  some  of  the  forts  bring 
gleams  of  the  situation.  To  our  right,  in  the 
center,  lie  Anzushan  and  Etzeshan,  the  Chair 
and  Table  Mountains.  Some  giant  might  hang 
his  legs  over  Anzushan  and  sup  from  Etzeshan, 
but  were  he  built  in  proportion  he  would  be 
nearly  two  thousand  feet  high,  for  they  rise  from 
the  valley  precipitously  half  that  distance.  It 
was  here,  the  key  to  the  center,  that  the  Japanese 
pierced  the  line  ten  years  ago,  but  they  have 
tried  no  such  move  this  time;  a  different  foe 
confronts  them  now.  Far  beyond  the  Chair  and 
Table  Mountains,  the  key  to  the  outer,  we  see 
Golden  Mount,  the  key  to  the  inner  defenses,  at 
once  a  sea  and  land  fort.  It  shines  glorious  and 
confident  in  the  sunlight,  the  model  of  a  con- 
ventionally built  fortification,  rising  square  and 
solid  from  the  hills,  buttressed  with  sod  and  sand 
bags  and  parapeted  on  a  bevel. 

After  all  the  outer  seventeen  forts  have  fallen 
and  after  that  terrible  Chinese  Wall  has  been 
pierced,  there  still  remains  Golden  Mount,  the 
Tiger's  Tail  and  Liaotishan.    Just  below  Golden 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY         43 

Mount,  to  be  seen  only  from  a  certain  angle  in 
the  valley  in  front  of  us,  lie  the  shattered  rem- 
nant of  the  Russian  fleet — three  gray  old  battle- 
ships, four  tarnished  cruisers  and  a  half  dozen 
torpedo  boats,  smashed  and  done  by  Togo's 
fleet,  whose  smoke  curls  irregularly  over  the  sky 
line  as  it  tugs  warily  there  on  perpetual  watch, 
a  watch  uninterrupted  for  seven  months,  in 
which  the  monotony  has  been  varied  by  three 
great  naval  battles. 

To  the  right  of  Golden  Mount  and  still  below 
it  lies  the  new  town  of  Port  Arthur  built  by  the 
Russians.  Hid  behind  a  hill  is  the  old  town  of 
frame  houses.  There  is  not  a  living  thing  to 
be  seen  on  the  streets,  lying  in  plain  view  through 
a  strong  glass,  as  though  in  miniature  on  the 
palm  of  your  hand.  It  is  unharmed  and  spot- 
less, seemingly  in  fresh  paint.  Four  sticks  pierc- 
ing the  sky  line  tell  of  the  wireless  telegraph 
station.  To  the  right  a  huge  crane  can  be  seen 
sticking  up  to  indicate  the  dock  yards  and  a 
patch  of  blue,  landlocked  water,  the  west  har- 
bor. Nearest  us  the  arsenal  and  railroad  shops 
are  plain.  Then  comes  the  railroad  mockingly 
deserted  in  the  sunlight.    Then  a  high  embank- 


44  PORT   ARTHUR 

ment  shuts  the  view,  but  we  know  that  under  the 
embankment  nestles  a  series  of  barracks.  Far 
out  on  the  plain,  between  the  two  armies,  and 
between  us  on  the  mountain  and  the  Russian 
forts,  two  miles  off,  a  lone  factory  chimney  up- 
slants  to  the  blue;  though  bursting  shells  have 
been  thick  about  there  it  is  unharmed,  and,  so 
far  as  we  can  see.  Port  Arthur  is  unharmed.  So 
far  the  Japanese  have  not  shelled  it  at  all.  But 
we  are  told  the  navy  has  wrecked  the  Russian 
quarter.  The  army  scorns  to  destroy  the  city 
which  now  lies  at  the  mercy  of  its  siege  guns, 
just  as  it  scorns  to  starve  out  the  beleaguered 
garrison.  It  is  a  civilized  game  the  Japanese  are 
playing,  one  of  strategy  and  force. 

Far  down  in  the  plain  called  the  Mariner's, 
or  the  Shuishiying  Valley,  a  little  to  the  left 
and  back  of  the  lone  chimney,  is  a  great  fort 
known  as  the  Two  Dragons,  a  most  difficult  place 
to  take  because  of  its  long  approaches.  It  is  the 
advance  guard  of  the  Russian  line;  only  eight 
hundred  yards  from  the  Japanese  trenches.  Far 
out  to  the  right,  resting  on  the  northern  arm  of 
Pigeon  Bay,  is  a  bald-headed  peak  some  eight 
hundred  feet  high.     This  is  Liaotishan,  the  ex- 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY  45 

treme  left  of  the  Russian  position.  Behind  the 
town  are  great  peaks,  the  highest  hereabouts, 
and  on  them,  in  the  early  morning,  four  brass 
cannons  can  be  seen  glittering.  They  are 
thought  to  be  dummy  cannon,  for  they  have  not 
yet  spoken. 

To  the  left  of  the  town,  with  its  Golden 
Mount,  begin  the  really  great  forts,  scenes  of 
carnage  destined  for  history's  brightest  page, 
and  about  which  have  taken  place  the  battles  I 
am  about  to  describe.  The  Eternal  Dragon  and 
the  three  batteries  of  the  Cock's  Comb  are  the 
essential.  Far  behind  this  Eternal  Dragon  and 
the  wail,  a  few  hundred  yards  from  the  sea,  is 
a  wooded  driveway,  leading  to  a  mountain 
called  Wangtai,  or  "  the  watch  tower."  Up  this, 
of  an  afternoon,  a  carriage  can  sometimes  be  seen 
drawn  by  white  horses.  Prisoners  tell  us  it  is 
General  Stoesscl's  carriage  and  that  he  thus  goes 
to  his  headquarters.  Why  is  he  not  fired  upon? 
Because  he  is  out  of  close  rifle  range  and  the 
Japanese  never  waste  a  shell  on  a  single  man  or 
on  even  a  group. 

Occasionally  we  can  see  men  moving  a  heavy 
gun  about,  or  walking  in  squads  through  the 


46  PORT   ARTHUR 

town.  The  Japanese  wait  to  concentrate  their 
fire;  they  never  harass  the  enemy.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  Russians,  now  when  they  should  hoard 
every  shell,  waste  hundreds  each  day.  They  will 
fling  a  six-inch  screamer  at  a  mule  or  an  um- 
brella, and  no  part  of  the  Japanese  rear  is  safe, 
though  distances  are  so  great  that  the  chances  of 
being  hit  are  one  in  a  thousand. 

All  is  quiet  except  that  now  and  then  a  Rus- 
sian shell  whizzes.  The  sound  can  no  longer 
be  called  the  "  boom  of  cannon,"  so  savage  and 
rending  is  the  detonation  of  these  mighty  mod- 
ern charges.  To  hear  one  explode  even  half  a 
mile  off  sets  every  fiber  of  the  body  in  action, 
so  angry  is  the  report.  Infantry  popping  can 
be  heard,  oftenest  in  the  night,  as  the  outposts 
come  together,  or  the  sentries  chaff  each  other 
by  showing  dummy  heads  or  arms.  But  over 
beyond  that  ragged  line  we  know  that  twenty 
thousand  men,  driven  into  a  corner — and  what 
a  corner  it  is! — are  fighting  like  rats  in  a  hole, 
that  they  are  of  the  same  blood  that  defeated 
Napoleon  when  on  the  defense  a  century  ago, 
the  same  that  half  a  century  ago  stubbornly  con- 
tested Sebastopol,  the  same  that  a  quarter  of  a 


OFF   FOR   I'OK  I    ARIHUR 
A  reserve  regiment  leaviiijr  Dalney  for  tlie  firiii;j;  line  eijiliteen 

miles  away. 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY         47 

century  ago,  at  appalling  loss  of  life,  reduced 
the  marvelous  Plevna.  They  sit  thus  hunted, 
at  bay,  well  ammunitioned  and  provisioned, 
determined  to  sell  every  ounce  of  blood 
dearly. 

To  take  Port  Arthur  seems  impossible.  It 
takes  men  drunk  with  victory  and  strong  in  an- 
cient might  to  dare  the  task.  It  is  only  looking 
at  what  the  Japanese  have  already  taken  that 
makes  one  have  faith  in  their  ability  to  do  what 
they  are  now  trying;  otherwise,  looking  across 
at  that  six-mile  line,  one  would  say  as  he  might 
have  said  of  the  ridges  lying  behind  us:  human 
energy  and  prowess  cannot  force  them;  only 
madmen  would  attempt  it.  But  the  Japanese 
have  already  forced  at  least  five  positions,  seem- 
ingly as  difficult  as  Port  Arthur.  First,  they 
took  Nanshan,  which  was  even  worse  than  this, 
for  the  approaches  were  gradual  for  two  miles, 
while  here  precipitous  heights  and  deep  ravines 
give  shelter.  Nanshan  the  Japanese  took  in  a 
single  desperate  day;  Kenzan,  where  they  had 
to  climb  hand  over  hand,  they  scaled  in  a  night; 
Witozan,  where  they  broke  in  over  parapets 
built  on  rocks  seven  hundred  feet  above  the  sea, 


48  PORT    ARTHUR 

they  reduced  at  high  noon;  Anshirey,  where  the 
road  climbs  up  a  spiral  for  a  mile,  and  is  raked 
at  every  yard,  they  enfiladed  and  took  in  two 
days;  and  Taikushan,  a  saddle  of  malachite  and 
granite  straddling  the  main  road  to  Port  Ar- 
thur, they  shelled  out  in  thirty-six  hours.  Thus 
it  is  we  have  faith  that  some  morning  the  world 
will  wake  to  hear  that  the  Rising  Sun  flies  over 
Port  Arthur,  which  the  military  experts  of  the 
Powers  have  declared  impregnable. 

Bitter  as  the  contest  is,  war  has  not  touched 
the  bowels  of  the  land.  Looking  into  the  plain 
behind  me  I  can  see  a  score  of  busy  and  peaceful 
villages  serene  in  a  sea  of  golden  harvest.  Maize 
and  buckwheat,  beans  and  millet,  cabbage  and 
barley  alternate  green  and  russet  over  the 
meadows.  Springless  bullock  carts,  ancient  as 
Jerusalem,  helped  by  tiny  donkeys  and  naked 
children,  painfully  garner  the  grain.  Women 
sing  in  low  monotones  at  the  primitive  stone 
mills  where  blindfolded  donkeys  travel  all  day 
in  a  circle,  grinding  out  the  seed  and  flour. 
Lines  of  coolies  wend  through  the  footpaths, 
spring-kneed  with  huge  weights  on  limber  poles. 
Shells  at  the  rate  of  four  or  five  an  hour  drop 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY         49 

into  this  great  area,  separated  from  the  field  of 
battle  by  a  range  of  mountains,  plowing  up  a 
hill,  shattering  a  house,  tearing  a  road,  killing 
a  donkey,  wounding  a  coolie,  but  of  no  great 
damage.  No  one  minds.  The  harvest  goes  on. 
The  glorious,  golden  September  continues.  The 
women  sing,  the  naked  children  play,  the  tiny 
donkeys  labor. 

It  is  the  plain  in  front,  under  the  Cock's  Comb 
and  the  Golden  Mount,  guarded  by  the  Two 
Dragons  that  has  desolate  quiet.  There  the 
maize  is  untouched  and  the  heavy  heads  of  the 
millet  fall  from  sheer  weight,  while  the  cab- 
bages are  crushed  by  infantry  passing  in  the 
night.  Fires  have  blackened  the  villages,  the 
Manchurians  have  fled,  and  in  ragged  lines  from 
sea  to  sea  the  two  armies  hold  their  hostile 
trenches,  from  which,  through  the  twenty- four 
hours,  goes  up  the  intermittent  ping  and  pop  of 
rifle  bullets. 

What  of  the  army?  You  cannot  see  it;  much 
less  can  you  hear  it.  An  army  of  a  hundred 
thousand  men  is  here,  around  us,  among  us,  but 
we  do  not  know  it,  we  can  hardly  guess  it.  Little 
would  one  think,  were  it  not  for  the  firing,  that 


so  PORT    ARTHUR 

so  much  as  a  company  were  idling  along  that 
plain.  A  machine  gun  rattles,  a  low,  deep  boom 
comes  from  the  sea;  the  forts  reply,  a  flash 
streaks  the  air,  we  see  a  puff  of  smoke,  then  a 
cloud  of  earth  is  thrown  up ;  finally,  after  a  long 
while,  as  we  are  about  to  turn  away,  the  angry 
shriek  of  a  shell  comes  over  and  we  hear  it  burst 
a  thousand  yards  below  in  the  valley.  Only  our 
ears  tell  us  that  war  is  on.  The  Japanese  are  as 
invisible  as  the  Russians.  It  will  take  days  and 
weeks  to  spy  out  the  labyrinthine  ways  of  this 
great  army  as  it  toils  among  the  hills,  into  the 
valley  and  up  the  ravines,  mounting  its  guns, 
and  digging  its  way  up  to  the  parapets,  where 
its  units  will  cling,  like  barnacles  to  a  ship,  until 
the  monstrous  hulk  founders. 

But  getting  down  into  the  rear  plain,  travel- 
ing the  road,  taking  a  different  one  each  day, 
passing  among  the  villages  and  through  the 
hills,  one  begins  to  realize  that  the  country  is 
honeycombed  by  grim  activity.  Back  and  forth, 
from  the  front  to  Cho-ray-che,  a  railroad  sta- 
tion halfway  from  Port  Arthur  to  Dalny,  travel 
lines  of  transport.  Each  line  has  from  one  to 
five  dozen  light  wagons  drawn  by  single  small 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY  51 

shaggy  horses,  each  guided  by  a  small  dust-vis- 
aged  soldier. 

"There  is  the  strength  of  our  army,"  said  an 
officer  to  me  one  day  as  a  company  of  them 
passed,  grimed,  heated,  menial.  They  are  the 
flower  of  Japanese  youth,  clerks,  professional 
men,  students,  exiled  on  rice  and  pickled  plums, 
getting  none  of  the  glory  of  war.  They  are  the 
unnamed  and  unknown  but  all-powerful  com- 
missary. 

As  the  transport  passes  in,  loaded  with  bags 
of  rice,  there  comes  out  another  line,  this  time 
of  coolies,  paired,  and  well  burdened  with  hu- 
man freight.  They  are  bearing  the  wounded, 
in  bamboo  stretchers  that  do  not  jolt  the  pite- 
ously  shattered  frames,  to  the  railroad  station, 
whence  they  go  by  train  to  Dalny,  thence  by  hos- 
pital ship  to  Japan.  Every  day  comes  this  drib- 
ble of  wounded,  some  days  only  a  score,  but  after 
a  battle  the  ways  are  thick  with  them — hundreds, 
thousands. 

Occasionally,  but  very  seldom,  a  battalion  or 
a  regiment  of  infantry  will  be  seen  moving  in, 
with  compact  lines,  knapsacks  on  back,  bearing 
rifles  with  the  barrel  holes  brass  covered.    The 


52  PORT   ARTHUR 

other  night  over  by  the  western  sea  I  suddenly 
came  upon  a  troop  of  cavalry  racing  along  the 
sands  in  the  sunset.  They  rode  their  horses  well^ 
considering  that  the  Japanese  is  not  a  horseman. 
Each  had  an  extra  mount.  They  frolicked  like 
plainsmen  till  the  coves  rang.  I  had  not  seen 
so  much  gayety  before  in  all  the  Japanese  army. 
But  what  can  cavalry  do  at  a  siege? 

For  the  sublime  we  need  not  go  to  the  firing 
line  where  men  risk  their  lives  and  lose  them. 
At  the  front  of  our  mountain  lies  a  deep  rutted 
road,  at  the  end  of  which,  hid  well  among  the 
hills,  is  the  hole  for  a  concrete  gun-emplace- 
ment, redoubted  with  sandbags,  the  glacis  slip- 
pery with  shale.  Along  this  road  as  the  sun 
sinks  we  see  what  looks  like  a  gigantic  snake, 
its  tail  pulling  an  ugly  head  slowly  backward, 
its  dust-covered  belly  squirming  laboriously. 
Descending  we  find  a  cable  thick  as  a  man's 
thigh  stretched  between  two  long  lines  of  men, 
each  of  whom  has  hold  and  is  pulling  that  ugly 
head — a  siege  gun — nose  and  breech  clap- 
boarded,  and  wallowing,  without  its  carriage,  on 
wooden  rollers.  We  count  the  men — 300.  Men 
alone  can  do  the  work,  for  they  alone  can  move  in 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY,         53 

unison,  quietly,  at  the  word  of  command.  There 
is  no  noise.  The  commands  cannot  be  heard  five 
hundred  yards  away.  The  three  hundred  bend 
their  backs  as  one  and  the  Pride  of  Osacca  bunts 
her  nose  through  the  dust  a  rod  nearer  emplace- 
ment. They  toil  there  a  week  to  get  that  mon- 
ster into  position,  pygmies  moving  a  power  that 
will  rend  the  mountains,  as  tradition  has  it  that 
Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  crew  moved  the 
ships'  cannon  into  the  Catskills  for  the  eternal 
generation  of  Knickerbocker  thunder.  To  look 
upon  that  gun,  helpless  but  disputatious  in  the 
hands  of  the  three  hundred,  to  realize  that  a 
week  hence  its  bulk,  into  which  one  of  these 
naked  Manchurian  children  can  easily  creep, 
will  toss  five  hundred  weight  of  shell  five  miles 
through  the  air  into  one  of  those  Russian  forts 
where  it  will  shatter  the  skill,  labor,  and  life  of 
an  Empire — ah,  that  is  sublime!  Is  it  not  also 
terrible? 

The  same  scientific  skill  with  which  the  gun 
is  handled  is  seen  throughout  the  army.  Even 
after  a  battle,  in  the  disorder  of  regiments,  the 
search  for  the  wounded,  the  burial  of  the  dead, 
there  is  no  confusion.     All  moves  quietly  and 


54  PORT   ARTHUR 

quickly.  No  officer  swears,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  the  Japanese  language  hasn't  the  words. 
Only  the  interpreters,  who  know  English,  swear. 
They,  however,  can  be  excused ;  they  handle  the 
correspondents,  to  whom  they  can't  speak,  as  the 
soldiers  do  to  the  Russians,  with  lead.  You  read 
of  "the  confusion  and  bustle  of  an  army"  and 
"  the  terrors  of  war."  There  is  no  confusion,  no 
terror  here.  No  shrieks,  no  shouts,  no  hurry- 
ing. Once,  as  a  regiment,  after  losing  half  its 
men,  scaled  the  top  parapet  of  one  of  those 
lower  forts  across  the  way,  it  gave  out  three 
rapid  "  Banzais."  Just  that  triple  cry  in  the 
early  dawn,  from  troops  drunk  with  victory  and 
mad  with  fatigue,  is  about  the  only  evidence  I 
have  that  the  army  possesses  nerves.  It  rings  in 
my  ears  yet  and  will  always  ring  there — a  wild 
shriek  of  samurai  exultation  floating  out  of  the 
mist  of  the  valley  above  the  voice  of  rifle  and 
cannon.  "The  officers  lost  control  for  a  few 
minutes,  but  not  for  long,"  explained  a  certain 
general  to  me  later,  apologetically.  He  didn't 
countenance  such  enthusiasm.  War  is  business 
here — the  most  superb  game  of  chess  ever  played 
upon  the  chequered  board  of  the  world. 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY         55 

One  thing  that  relieves  the  situation  of  much 
of  the  evident  hurry  that  once  made  war  pic- 
turesque is  the  absence  of  the  orderly.  The 
mounted  officer,  riding  for  life,  dispatch  in 
breast-pocket  or  saddle  bag,  from  the  general 
to  his  brigadiers  and  his  colonels,  is  food  for 
reminiscence.  The  telephone  rang  his  knell. 
This  is  the  first  time  in  history  that  the  field  tele- 
phone has  come  successfully  into  extensive 
active  use.  General  Nogi  can  sit  in  his  head- 
quarters, four  miles  from  Port  Arthur,  and  speak 
with  every  battery  and  every  regiment  lying 
within  sight  of  the  doomed  forts.  Little  bands 
of  uniformed  men,  carrying  bamboo  poles  and 
light  wire  frames  on  transport  carts,  and  armed 
with  saws  and  shovels,  have  intersected  the  pe- 
ninsula with  lines  of  instantaneous  communica- 
tion. It  is  the  twentieth  century.  Yet,  as  I 
walked  over  the  hills  near  the  headquarters  of 
the  commander  of  artillery  yesterday,  I  saw, 
hanging  from  one  of  the  bamboo  poles  and  all 
along  a  wire  leading  from  it  to  the  artillery 
commander's  tent,  strips  of  white  cotton  cloth 
called  "  goheis."  You  can  see  the  same  before 
all  the  Shinto  shrines  in  Japan.    They  arc  offer- 


56  PORT    ARTHUR 

ings  of  supplication  to  the  spirits  of  the  fathers. 
Some  simple  linesman,  garbed  in  khaki  and 
wearing  an  electric  belt,  not  content  with  tele- 
phonic training,  would  thus  guard  his  general. 
"Oh,  ye  who  have  watched  over  Japan,  in  peril 
and  in  safety,  from  the  age  of  Jimmu,  even  to 
the  present  day,"  he  cries,  "  now,  in  a  foreign 
land,  faithfully  guard  this,  our  talisman  and 
signal!" 

I  have  said  there  are  no  sounds  in  the  Japa- 
nese army.  But  there  are — a  few.  At  night, 
from  far  back  on  the  rear  plain,  comes  the 
monosyllabic  sound  of  singing,  several  compa- 
nies in  unison,  interspersed  with  light  laughter — 
nothing  hilarious,  nothing  loud,  only  an  over- 
flow of  happy  spirit  into  the  night — never  in 
the  daytime,  always  at  night.  The  song  is  a  long 
one  by  Fukishima,  a  Major-General  now  in  the 
north  with  Marshal  Oyama,  with  a  refrain: 
"Nippon  Caarte,  Nippon  Caarte;  Rosen  Mark- 
e-te."  (Russia  defeated  is,  Japan  victorious.) 
The  laughter  comes  from  the  game  they  play, 
something  like  our  fox  and  geese,  an  innocent 
sport  vvith  nothing  rough  about  it.  Of  late  the 
Osacca  band  has  been   here,  playing  for  the 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY  57 

generals  at  luncheon  and  for  the  convalescents 
in  the  field  hospitals,  but  very  quiet  music^ — The 
Geisha,  some  Misereres,  waltzes  from  Wang, 
and  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan's  tunes.  They  avoid 
the  military,  the  dramatic,  and  the  inspiriting. 
The  music  is  taken  to  soothe,  just  as  their  sur- 
geons use  opium  when  necessary.  How  differ- 
ent from  the  Russian,  of  whom  each  regiment 
has  a  band  busy  every  day  with  the  pomp  and 
circumstance  of  conflict!  One  day,  a  week  be- 
fore we  came  here,  the  Russians  made  a  sortie 
into  the  plain,  parading  for  several  hundred 
yards  in  front  of  the  Two  Dragons.  That  was 
before  the  lines  were  as  closely  drawn  as  they 
are  now  and  the  Japanese  looked  with  amuse- 
ment on  the  show-off.  At  the  head  marched  two 
bands,  brassing  a  brilliant  march.  Then  came 
the  colors  flashing  in  the  sun.  The  officers  were 
dashingly  decorated,  and  the  troops  wore  colored 
caps.  It  was  a  rare  treat  for  the  Japanese,  for 
they  had  never  seen  anything  such  as  that  in  their 
own  army.  Like  a  boy  bewildered  at  the  gay 
plumage  of  a  bird  he  might  not  otherwise  catch, 
the  simple  and  curious  Japanese  let  the  foe  vain- 
gloriously  march  back  into  the  town.    So  here 


58  PORT    ARTHUR 

they  sit,  playing  children's  games,  to  the  cham- 
ber music  of  women,  as  gentle  as  girls — but  you 
should  see  them  fight! 

The  transport  camps  are  sheltered  by  moun- 
tains so  high  and  steep  that  Russian  shells  can- 
not be  fired  at  an  angle  to  drop  in  behind  them. 
Through  one  of  these  nooks  I  came  one  morn- 
ing, unable  to  find  the  main  road,  and  pushed 
among  the  horses.  As  I  emerged  at  the  farther 
end  a  soldier  rushed  at  me  with  a  bayonet  and 
slashed  at  my  legs.  The  bayonet  was  sheathed 
and  I  had  a  stout  stick,  so  no  damage  was  done. 
I  soon  explained  who  I  was.  He  sullenly  let 
me  pass  and  his  comrades  began  chaffing  him. 
Some  officers  across  the  ravine  also  laughed.  I 
thought  they  were  laughing  at  me.  Almost 
any  human  nature  laughs  at  the  foreigner. 
That  was  the  first  evidence  of  violence  and 
the  first  evidence  of  rudeness  I  had  seen  in 
the  Japanese  soldier.  I  passed  the  day  ofif 
in  the  regiment  and,  as  night  fell,  came  back 
through  the  horses,  where  I  went  without  com- 
ment. Round  a  corner,  out  of  sight  of  the  camp 
I  suddenly  came  upon  the  same  soldier  appar- 
ently waiting  to  see  me.     I  grasped  my  stick 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY         59 

tightly,  but  he  was  weaponless,  and  advanced 
smiling,  cigarette  box  in  hand.  He  wanted  to 
apologize  and  be  friends.  His  comrades  had 
been  laughing  at  him,  not  at  me,  and  had 
taunted  him  till  he  felt  so  ashamed  of  himself 
that  unless  I  smoked  with  him  and  returned  for 
some  tea  he  would  never  stand  right  with  them 
again.  We  had  the  tea  and  the  whole  mess 
joined  in.  That  was  a  private  soldier — a  hostler. 
The  courtesy  of  the  officers  is  embarrassing,  it 
is  so  continuous  and  exacting.  Everywhere, 
from  general  to  private,  it  is  real  and  delightful, 
especially  toward  an  American.  I  have  heard 
many  say  that  it  is  only  a  crust,  that  underneath 
the  Japanese  is  a  devil  and  a  dastard.  But  a 
very  nice  crust.  Let  us  enjoy  it;  as  to  the  pie 
underneath,  let  the  Russians  testify. 

For  the  essence  of  courtesy  and  thoughtful- 
ness  there  is  General  Nogi.  James  Ricalton  and 
I  went  to  call  on  him  two  days  ago.  He  spent 
half  an  hour  with  us  at  his  headquarters  in  the 
village  of  Luchufong,  which  is  Chinese  for 
Willow  Tree  Apartment.  It  is  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest villages  in  the  great  plain,  on  the  edge  of 
a  brook,  fringing  the  zone  of  fire.     Everything 


6o  PORT   ARTHUR 

shows  seclusion  and  quiet,  though  there  is 
located  the  brain  that  directs  these  gigantic 
operations,  the  girth  of  which  Nogi  alone  com- 
prehends. "Do  you  understand  the  situation?" 
I  asked  weeks  ago  of  Frederic  Villiers,  the  vet- 
eran English  war  artist,  survivor  of  seventeen 
campaigns,  present  ten  years  ago  at  the  other 
fall  of  Port  Arthur,  and  dean  of  the  war  cor- 
respondents. 

*'  No,"  said  he,  "  I  was  at  Plevna  with  the 
Russians,  but  that  was  jackstraws  to  this  game 
of  go.  I  know  nothing  of  go.  Ask  the  military 
attaches."  In  turn  I  asked  the  different  mili- 
tary attaches — the  German,  French,  English, 
Chilean,  Spanish,  Swedish,  and  finally  the  young 
lieutenant  here  for  the  United  States.  They  all 
understood  all  about  Port  Arthur,  but  the 
trouble  was,  no  two  knew  it  the  same.  So  I  went 
back  to  Villiers.  "Nogi  is  the  only  man  that 
knows,"  said  he;  "Nogi  alone  can  tell  you  how 
the  batteries  are  placed,  how  the  divisions  and 
regiments  are  to  be  deployed  and  played,  what 
forts  are  the  keys,  what  Russian  batteries  the 
weakest,  the  reserve  force,  the  commissary  and 
hospital  supplies." 


THE    INVISIBLE   ARMY         6i 

So,  naturally,  coming  to  meet  such  a  man  we 
must  have  some  awe,  some  curiosity  and  some 
respect  for  the  master  strategist,  commander  of 
the  army  which  drove  the  Russians  down  the 
peninsula  and  which  holds  it  now  in  a  death 
trap.  We  expected  to  meet  a  man  of  iron,  for 
Nogi  is  the  General  whose  eldest  son,  a  lieuten- 
ant in  the  Second  Army,  was  killed  at  Nanshan; 
who  has  under  his  command  a  second  son,  a 
lieutenant,  and  who  wrote  home  after  the  first 
disaster:  "Hold  the  funeral  rites  until  Hoten 
and  I  return,  when  you  can  bury  three  at 
once." 

The  General  received  us  in  his  garden.  He 
was  at  a  small  table,  under  a  willow,  working 
with  a  magnifying  glass  over  a  map.  He  wore 
an  undress  blue  uniform  with  the  three  stars  and 
three  stripes  of  a  full  general  on  the  sleeve — no 
other  decoration,  though  once  before  I  had  seen 
him  wearing  the  first  class  order  of  the  Rising 
Sun.  His  parchment-krinkled  face,  brown  like 
chocolate  with  a  summer's  torrid  suns,  beamed 
kindly  on  us.  His  smile  and  manner  were  fath- 
erly. It  was  impossible  to  think  that  any  com- 
plicated problem  troubled  his  mind.    A  rcscm- 


62  PORT    ARTHUR 

blance  in  facial  contour  to  General  Sherman 
arrested  us.  Lying  near,  in  his  hammock,  was  a 
French  novel.  He  reads  both  French  and  En- 
glish, but  does  not  trust  himself  to  speak  in 
either.  Miki  Yamaguchi,  Professor  of  lan- 
guages in  the  Nobles  School,  Tokyo,  for  seven 
years  resident  in  America,  and  graduate  of  the 
Wabash  college,  was  the  interpreter. 

"Look  after  your  bodies,"  the  General  said 
after  greeting  us.  "  I  was  out  to  the  firing  line 
the  other  day  and  came  back  with  a  touch  of  dys- 
entery, so  take  warning.  I  do  not  want  any  of 
you  to  be  sick.  At  the  first  sign  of  danger  con- 
sult our  surgeons.    We  have  good  surgeons." 

"We  are  of  little  account.  General,"  said 
Ricalton,  "  but  it  is  a  very  serious  thing  for  a 
man  on  whom  the  world's  eyes  are  centered  to 
have  dysentery." 

The  General  smiled.  "  I  am  quite  well  now," 
he  said ;  "  but  how  old  are  you?  "  he  asked,  look- 
ing at  Ricalton's  gray  hairs.  They  compared 
ages.  Ricalton  proved  to  be  three  years  the  older. 

"  The  command  of  the  army,  then,  belongs  to 
me,"  said  Ricalton.    "  I'm  your  senior." 

"Ah,"  said  the  General,  "but  then  I  should 


Fram  Slerrograph,  Cafrright  /(^>/,  hi  Undrrwood  &  Uiidrrwood,  Nrw    i'ori 

GENERAL  HARON   NO(iI 
The  photograph  shows  the  Commander  of  i1k-  lliiid  lin|>cii:il  Japan- 
ese Army  studyiiifr  the  defenses  of  Port  Artliiir  in  his  >;arden 
in  the  Willow  Tree  Villajre,  Manchuria 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY         63 

have  to  do  your  work  and  I  fear  I  could  not  do 
it  as  well  as  you  do." 

That  night  a  huge  hamper  came  to  Ricalton's 
tent  in  charge  of  the  headquarters  orderly.  It 
contained  three  huge  bunches  of  Malaga  grapes, 
half  a  dozen  Bartlett  pears,  a  peck  of  fine 
snow  apples,  and  bore  a  card  reading:  "The 
General  sends  his  compliments  to  his  senior  in 
command." 

"He  is  a  great  man,"  said  Ricalton,  "who 
can  so  notice,  in  the  midst  of  colossal  labors,  a 
passing  old  photographer." 

But,  as  Nogi  goes,  so  go  the  other  generals, 
and  so  goes  the  army.  Villiers  and  I  went  yes- 
terday to  call  on  a  certain  Lieutenant-General 
who  commands  the  most  important  third  of  the 
forces.  His  division  has  borne  the  brunt  of  the 
fighting,  and  he  doesn't  live  as  Nogi  does,  on 
the  edge  of  the  zone  of  fire,  but  close  under  the 
guns  within  a  mile  of  the  Russian  forts,  so  close 
that  in  his  lookout  two  of  his  staff  officers  were 
recently  killed.  His  home  is  a  dugout  in  the 
side  of  a  mountain.  It  is  large  enough  for  him 
to  lie  down  in  and  turn  over.  He  had  a  heavy 
white  blanket,  a  rubber  pillow  to  be  inflated 


64  PORT   ARTHUR 

with  lung  power,  a  fan,  an  officer's  trunk  that 
carries  sixty  pounds,  and  a  small  lantern  of  oiled 
silk — this  was  his  furniture,  his  complete  out- 
fit. On  a  peg  hung  his  sword,  and  outside,  on 
the  ground,  lay  his  boots.  Some  member  of  his 
staff  had  fixed  up  an  iron  bedstead  and  a  water 
bowl,  but  they  were  lying  off  at  the  side  of  the 
dugout,  untouched.  He  came  to  meet  us  in  a 
thin  pair  of  rubber  slippers,  his  uniform  a  bit 
worn,  the  string  on  his  breast,  where  the  order 
of  the  Rising  Sun  is  usually  worn,  barren,  his 
eyes  kindly,  his  manner  fatherly  and  his  hospi- 
tality generous;  he  spread  a  lunch  bountiful  as 
Nogi's. 

"I  know  the  Russians,"  said  Villiers  that 
night.  "  I  was  with  them  all  through  the  Russo- 
Turkish  War.  I  remember  Skoboleff,  their 
great  cavalry  leader,  a  magnificent  type  of  man, 
a  soldier  to  the  ground,  but  fiery,  emotional, 
vivacious,  vain,  fond  of  orders,  jewels,  wine  and 
women,  looking  on  war  as  a  lark,  dashing  and 
brilliant,  the  scourge  of  Europe!  He  was  not 
this  type  of  man — a  scientific  chap,  sober,  full 
of  business  to  the  chin,  no  lugs  to  him,  and  as 
unemotional  as  a  fish.    Kuropatkin  was  Skobo- 


THE    INVISIBLE    ARMY         65 

leff's  Chief  of  Staff  and  you  see  what  these  fel- 
lows have  done  with  him.  The  day  of  cynical 
dash  and  reckless  valor  has  gone  by  in  war,  my 
boy.  We  are  living  in  an  age  of  modesty  and 
gentleness,  of  science  and  concentration;  Japan 
is  the  master." 

We  lay  under  the  searchlights,  which  were 
turning  the  night  valley  into  a  noontide  halo,  as 
Villiers  spoke.  Every  light  came  from  the  Rus- 
sian side,  which  lay  wary  and  restless  beyond 
us.  From  the  Japanese  side  came  no  light,  no 
sound.  All  was  secrecy  and  silence.  Yet  we 
knew  those  hills  were  alive  with  toiling  brown 
figures,  that  a  ten-mile  line  of  rifle  pits  was 
guarded  at  every  rod  by  a  sleepless  soldier 
watching  for  the  Rising  Sun  and  that  the  tents 
of  those  Generals  blinked  unceasingly  with  the 
steady  glow  of  the  oiled  silk  lanterns,  quivering 
cabalistically  with  ideographs. 

As  I  looked  upon  swaying  and  heavy  search- 
lights, I  could  think  only  of  the  Indian  cobra 
and  his  mortal  enemy,  the  mongoose.  Silently, 
rolled  in  a  ball,  alert  for  a  fatal  spring, 
the  little  mongoose  watches,  and  the  hooded 
cobra  swings  ponderously,  more  nervous  with 


66  PORT   ARTHUR 

each  move.  All  other  enemies  he  can  crush; 
none  other  he  fears;  his  body  is  murderous,  his 
fangs  deadly,  his  stealthy  glide  noiseless  and 
sure.  How  well  he  knows  his  power!  Despot 
of  the  jungle,  why  should  he  fear?  And  yet, 
since  the  world  dawned  his  tribe  has  done  well 
to  avoid  the  mongoose. 

Steadily  swings  the  cobra;  viciously  he  lunges. 
Now  look!  In  the  folds  of  the  cobra's  neck 
those  incisive  teeth,  those  death-dealing  claws! 
With  the  fury  of  whirlwinds  lashes  the  cobra. 
With  eternal  calm  cling  the  teeth  and  claws. 
Hour  after  hour  goes  the  unequal  struggle.  The 
huge  coils  relax,  the  great  head  falls.  Then 
the  beady  eyes  twinkle.  The  mongoose  slips  off 
in  the  darkness;  prone  lies  the  cobra.  Who 
sheds  tears?. 


Chapter  Three 

TWO   PICTURES   OF   WAR— A   GLANCE   BACK 

'OKYO,  June  ist: — Who  pays  for  the 
war?  Here  are  a  few  telling  one 
another  that  they  are  the  bankers.  It 
is  at  a  Sunday  concert  in  the  fifth  city 
of  the  world,  a  wilderness  of  sheds  flimsy  over 
two  million  human  beings.  In  the  midst  rise 
vast  acres  of  country  solitude  and  rest.  A  tangle 
of  cryptomeria  and  fir  shade  puzzled  paths 
winding  through  furse  of  elderberry  and  haw- 
thorn. Haze  and  vista  spread  away  past  hills 
and  forests,  past  hothouses  and  lawns  of  firm 
packed  earth.  A  lake  dimples  a  vale,  as  a  smile 
the  cheek  of  a  lovely  woman,  and  its  pebbly  bed 
reflects  the  laughter  of  the  sun.  About  it  flut- 
tering flags,  new  and  gay,  festoon  the  sentiment 
of  all  nations,  one — Russia — excepted.  Thou- 
sands, tens  of  thousands,  dot  the  paths,  are  merry 
with  the  lake,  instill  from  the  greenery  a  quiet 
joy.       Hundreds  of  voices,  atunc  with  instru- 

67 


68  PORT   ARTHUR 

ments,  filter  the  fragant  air  with  music.  Be- 
yond the  fence  is  squalor  so  dense  three  sen  a 
month  pays  for  a  dwelling;  here  is  leisure  so 
luxurious  the  senses  float  in  dreams.  In  a  cor- 
ner a  moldy  Diabutsu,  the  calm  of  Nirvana  on 
his  face,  nods  on  a  leaf  of  lotus;  "out  of  the 
slime  itself  spotless  the  lotus  grows." 

Tokyo  is  beautiful — brunette  and  beautiful. 
This  first  day  of  June  she  has  risen  past  the 
cherry  blossom,  past  the  wistaria,  through  the 
freshness  of  spring  to  the  full  radiance  of  sum- 
mer. Pink,  like  the  fleece  of  clouds  in  the  sky, 
and  heliotrope,  like  the  first  flush  of  sunrise,  are 
past.  Now  green,  rich  and  deep  from  a  soil  of 
winnowed  sustenance,  mantles  her  in  Oriental 
splendor — a  splendor  simple  and  elegant  with 
the  wealth  of  the  east,  shadowy  and  sunny  with 
the  blow  of  Japan.  It  folds  her  about  with  the 
assuring  clasp  of  a  lover,  and  she  responds  with 
the  shy,  voluptuous  acceptance  of  a  maid 
o'erwon. 

This  is  a  summer  of  content,  a  dream  of  gay- 
ety,  of  insouciance.  A  million  babies  gurgle 
with  the  baby  glory  of  it.  A  million  mothers  coo 
and  coddle  at  the  eternal  freshness  of  it.     But 


TWO    PICTURES    OF   WAR       69 

here,  to-day,  in  this  wilderness  of  terraced  gar- 
den, in  this  bouquet  of  smiling  East,  have 
assembled  the  daintiest  mothers  in  the  land — the 
peeresses.  The  son  of  one  is  a  major-general. 
Others  have  captains,  colonels,  aides-de-camp  to 
tug  their  heartstrings  with  fear,  to  inflate  their 
pulses  with  pride.  Have  we  not  penetrated  to 
the  very  viscera  of  war's  nature  when  we  find 
the  mothers  of  its  heroes  thus  assembled? 

One  of  these  mothers,  a  Princess,  passes. 
Should  she  buy  that  delicate  lace  and  lingerie, 
so  charming  with  all  that's  feminine,  from 
boxes  labeled  and  graded,  she  would  choose 
misses'  sizes,  so  tiny  is  she.  A  toy  of  a  woman, 
demure  and  pretty;  yet  put  up  by  the  finest  of 
Parisian  makers.  The  dotted  mulle  of  her  veil 
sweeps  slightly  away,  scallop-like,  from  a  face 
thin  with  aristocratic  aquilinity.  Behind  that 
face,  with  wax  complexion  and  eyes  of  bead- 
like purity,  scintillates  a  mind  bred  on  intel- 
lectual fashions.  She  speaks  with  the  cultured 
English  of  Vassar.  She  knows  Omar  Kha>^am 
as  well  as  any.  The  major-general  is  her  son. 
Beside  her  walks  another  son,  his  gold-rimmed 
spectacles  completing  a  fine  picture  of  esthetic 


70  PORT   ARTHUR 

pride.  His  silk  tile  is  the  envy  of  every  Japanese 
not  bred  abroad,  for  his  clothes  are  from  Picca- 
dilly. The  garden  is  full  of  these  and  such  as 
these.  They  are  giving  a  concert  for  the  relief 
fund. 

The  music!  It  is  the  choicest  that  the  sensu- 
ous imagination  of  man  has  built  out  of  rules 
and  dreams.  "William  Tell"  thunders  its  dia- 
pason from  the  hid  footholds  of  the  earth.  The 
audacious  march  of  Leroul  spits  out  its  song 
of  triumph.  "America"  murmurs  a  swelling 
hymn.  A  Weber  overture  sparkles,  ascends, 
leaping  crags,  whirling  diaphanous  gayety 
through  cloud  and  shadow. 

Then  a  Japanese  aria,  weird  with  the  rapt 
genius  of  the  land,  molten  with  Malay  poise, 
floats  a  mystery  of  ancient  longing  through  the 
broad  day's  haze.  It  weaves  through  fir  and 
cryptomeria,  assaults  the  hearts  of  thousands, 
and,  triumphant,  storms  the  heavens;  is  lost  in 
the  faint  sky,  a  sky  blue  with  the  dreaminess 
Whistler  would  have  etched  in  immortal 
phantasy. 

The  Relief  Fund  gets  fifty  sen  apiece  from 
these  peeresses  with  Piccadilly  sons,  brothered 


TWO    PICTURES    OF    WAR       71 

by  major-generals.  And  all  other  manner  of 
folk,  down  to  the  little  sister,  carrying  on  her 
back  a  future  soldier  of  the  emperor,  daughter 
of  a  rice  cleaner  in  a  three-sen  dwelling  beyond 
the  gate,  thus  while  the  pleasant  hours  away. 

On  the  heights  of  Tokyo  they  are  paying  for 
the  war. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Here  are  the  heights  of  Nanshan  on  the  27th 
of  May.  It  is  5.20  o'clock  in  the  morning  and 
seas  of  sunlight  are  hid  in  a  fog  across  Korea 
Bay.  The  fog  lifts,  and  as  the  day  bursts  in 
along  the  whole  line  the  banner  of  the  Rising 
Sun  is  planted  on  the  Russian  ramparts  of  Kin- 
chow.  Since  midnight  the  artillery  of  the  third 
division  has  been  hammering  from  the  right,  off 
toward  Talienwan.  At  intervals  the  infantry 
of  the  first  and  fourth  divisions  charge  from  the 
front  whence  they  have  been  advancing  for  two 
days.  It  is  the  second  army  of  60,000  Japanese 
and  the  investment  of  Port  Arthur  has  begun. 
The  railway  has  long  been  cut.  Now  Kinchow 
is  taken  and  the  Russians  are  helter-skelter 
Dalnyward. 

Here,  then,  is  the  theater,  scene  of  such  sub- 


72  PORT    ARTHUR 

lime  assault  and  conquest  as  the  eye  of  history 
has  not  looked  upon  since  Grant  stood  on 
Orchard  Knob  and  watched  his  thin  blue  line 
scale  Missionary  Ridge;  the  hill  of  Nanshan, 
key  to  the  advance  on  Port  Arthur.  Turned  in 
its  lock  Nanshan  confronts  the  Japanese,  im- 
pregnable, ghastly  grim  in  the  fresh  sunlight. 
We  may  well  pause  to  inspect  the  position.  It 
rises,  formidable,  the  height  of  a  church  steeple, 
from  a  narrow  plain.  The  edges  of  this  plain 
dip  sheer  down  a  hundred  feet  of  slippery  rock 
to  the  two  bays — Talienwan  and  Kinchow. 
From  bay  to  bay  is  scarce  three  miles.  From 
Nanshan  we  may  see,  through  a  glass,  die  bay  of 
Kinchow.  Riding  on  it  are  four  of  the  enemy's 
gunboats.  Their  shells  are  flying  over  our 
heads.  They  have  not  yet  found  the  range.  To 
the  left  in  Talienwan,  a  Russian  gunboat,  guard- 
ing four  transports,  is  enfilading  the  third  Jap- 
anese Division  and  supporting  a  regiment  of  its 
own  men  flanking  the  base  of  the  hill.  The  hill 
has  been  cleared  of  underbrush  and  terraced, 
divided  into  four  intervals  and  on  these  in- 
tervals trenches  built.  One  hundred  and  ten 
cannon  are  there  manned.     At  the  bottom  are 


TWO    PICTURES   OF   WAR       73 

barbed-wire  fences,  Spanish  trocha,  not  like  the 
fences  of  a  cow  pasture,  but  dovetailed  and 
doubled  so  that  if  a  man  breaks  through  one  he 
stumbles  into  the  oblique,  bloody  arms  of 
another. 

This  the  Japanese  are  to  assault  before  noon. 
There  is  no  timber,  only  a  few  bushes  and  rock 
the  size  of  a  bull's  head,  hard  things  to  wade 
through,  but  no  defense.  They  must  cross  the 
open  plain,  500  yards,  in  full  range  of  those  one 
hundred  and  ten  cannon,  smash  the  barbed  wire, 
climb  the  terraced  plateaus  where  they  will  be 
picked  off  like  rabbits  in  a  shooting  gallery,  as- 
sault the  trenches  and  finally  take  the  heights. 
To  take  one  trench  seems  heroic  achievement, 
four  an  impossibility.  Impossible  but  for  one 
thing — orders.  The  navy  was  ordered  at  the 
outset  of  the  war  "to  exterminate"  the  Russian 
fleet,  this  Second  Army  went  out  to  "  take  Port 
Arthur."  And  they  obey  orders — these  Jap- 
anese. So  why  contemplate  that  to  attempt  that 
Hill  of  Nanshan  is  folly,  to  take  it  madness? 

The  Russians  wait.  All  is  silence — the  awed 
hush  preceding  carnage,  terror,  death.  Wait- 
ing they  sing,  not  light  tunes  heard  so  bright  and 


74  PORT    ARTHUR 

gay  on  the  heights  of  Tokyo  to-day;  chansons  of 
France,  Italy's  peerless  compositions,  America's 
solemn  new-born  hymn  or  Japan's  flute  note 
weird  and  penetrating.  From  deep  bass  throats 
and  barytones  majestic  rolls  organ  music  of 
fierce,  wild  grandeur,  as  through  some  vast 
forest  aisle  the  harmonies  of  winds  and  woods 
and  waves  unite  in  mighty  paeans,  celebrating 
to  the  august  fastnesses  glories  yet  fresh  to  man. 
Schools,  traditions,  customs  civilized  have  not 
touched  the  fiber  of  that  central  gauntness,  shin- 
ing up  through  the  spirit  of  the  singers,  like 
dreamland  on  a  tragedian's  afterglow.  Siberia 
with  all  its  wildness,  with  all  its  immensity, 
where  aback  the  mammoth  wallowed;  the  Cau- 
casus tossing  aloft  primeval  ectasy,  the  long  slant 
of  the  steppes,  and  Russia,  bold,  defiant,  re- 
vengeful ;  all  rolled  in  one,  are  in  that  note.  The 
clothes  of  the  men  are  heavy,  ungainly,  ill-made, 
nothing  serviceable  but  the  boots,  which  are  well 
adapted  for  running  away.  The  faces — sodden 
with  ignorance  and  vice — reflect  only  stolid  en- 
durance; no  initiative,  no  individuality.  Only 
through  the  song  shines  the  soul. 
The   singing   ceases.     There   is    a    dreadful 


TWO    PICTURES    OF   WAR       75 

hush.  It  is  eleven  o'clock.  Off  toward  Kinchow, 
which  is  hid  by  a  fringe  of  low  fir  trees,  some- 
thing is  moving.  Soon  hunchbacked  dabs  can 
be  seen  bobbing  across  the  furze,  leaping  over 
the  stones,  pausing,  searching,  then  onward  dash- 
ing. The  firing  begins.  Two  machine  guns — 
only  ten  of  the  one  hundred  and  ten  are  quick- 
firers — lead  off.  You  can  easily  tell  them. 
The  sound  is  little,  like  the  popping  of  a  dozen 
beer  bottles  in  quick  succession.  Then  silence. 
The  strip  of  cartridges  is  torn  aside,  another 
inserted,  again  a  dozen  pops.  So  it  goes  until 
the  ten  are  brought  into  action  and  there  is  no 
intermission.  Flicks  of  dust  are  kicked  up  by 
the  shells,  most  falling  short,  a  few  passing  on 
through  the  trees.  One  of  the  bobbing  dabs 
falls,  the  rest  press  on.  Now  the  gunners  are 
getting  the  range;  the  shells  pick  off  more 
hunchbacks. 

But  there  is  no  stop.  This  is  not  reconnoi- 
sance;  it  is  battle.  The  skirmishers  deployed 
and  well  up,  now  the  main  line  advances.  Out 
from  the  trees  on  a  dog-trot  springs  a  battalion. 
It  is  going  to  try  that  griddle  of  death.  The 
men  dash  valiantly  on,  agile  fellows,  intense  as 


76  PORT   ARTHUR 

fanatics.  Now  the  hundred  field  cannon  come 
into  play.  Most  are  Chinese  of  ancient  date, 
some  are  modern,  rim-firing.  Smoke  fills  the 
plain.  It  is  difficult  to  see.  The  torrent  of  lead 
is  on.  Snatched  through  the  noise  of  firing  you 
can  hear  great  cries;  they  grow  spasmodic,  then 
cease.  The  firing  slows.  Soon  only  the  auto- 
matic pops  are  heard.  The  smoke  drifts  off. 
The  foremost  man  is  there  on  the  wire,  gutted. 
He  hangs,  a  frightful  mass,  limp  on  the  barbs. 
Here  and  there  a  poor  fellow  is  crawling,  as  you 
have  seen  some  worm  trodden  on  vainly  seek  its 
hole.  Not  a  man  of  the  battalion  has  survived. 
A  thousand  brave,  faithful  soldiers  are  gone. 
So  this  is  civilized  warfare! 

Yes.  They  now  see  it  was  folly  to  attempt  the 
hill  of  Nanshan.  So  they  open  up  with  artil- 
lery, a  whole  regiment  of  it,  infinitely  superior 
to  the  sixty  antiquated  cannon,  the  forty  Canet 
pieces  and  the  ten  quick-firers.  For  an  hour 
they  rain  that  leaden  taunt  back  at  dubious  Nan- 
shan, who  austerely  barks  out  a  thin  reply, 
coughs  a  wheezy  growl  and  ceases.  Mean- 
while the  thousands  in  leash,  battle  inflamed, 
recall  that  the  dead  battalion  are  Osacca  men, 


TWO    PICTURES    OF   WAR       77 

and,  being  merchants  from  the  Japanese  Chi- 
cago, had  been  hailed  as  cowards  by  sons  of 
samurai.  A  company  of  Osaccans  went  down, 
stuck,  like  pigs,  in  the  Kinshu  Maru.  But  after 
Nanshan  the  pork  packers  of  Osacca  will  hold 
their  heads  decently  high  with  the  boldest. 

Toward  three  o'clock  the  second  advance  is 
ordered.  Half  the  third  division  and  a  part  of 
the  first,  nearly  15,000  men,  close  in.  They  get 
across  the  plain,  dropping  a  few  hundreds,  and 
smash  the  wire.  Drunkenly  dizzy,  flaring  with 
the  lust  of  battle,  the  vanguard  tears  clothes, 
limbs,  and  tosses  on  the  treacherous  barbs. 

They  have  no  scissors,  no  choppers,  no  axes. 
Worse,  they  have  no  time.  They  keep  on  at  the 
fence,  gashing  shins,  stripped  of  impediments, 
down  to  the  instincts  and  passions,  all  discipline 
gone,  every  vestige  of  civilization  lost.  Now 
they  are  through,  half-naked,  savage,  yelling, 
even  Japanese  stoicism  gone.  Up  to  the  very 
muzzles  of  the  first  entrenchment  they  surge, 
waver  and  break  like  the  dash  of  angry  waves 
against  a  rock-bound  coast.  It  seems  no  tide  or 
wind  can  melt  that  precipitous  front.  But  only 
seems.     A  rest,  a  terrible  breathing  spell,  the 


78  PORT   ARTHUR 

slow,  wounded  gasp  of  an  animal  in  pain,  and 
again  the  intrepid  Japanese  lash  their  haggard 
forms  against  that  low  trench.  Glory!  They 
win!  The  Rising  Sun  glares  in  the  afternoon 
as  it  greeted  the  sun  of  that  morning  above 
Kinchow. 

Yet  only  a  quarter  of  the  battle  is  won. 
Another  rest.  Another  assault.  Again  and 
again  they  go  up.  Nine  times  they  hammer 
away,  muskets  to  jowl,  heads  down  like  bulls  in 
the  ring,  with  one  thought;  nay!  not  a  thought, 
an  instinct — to  win  or  die. 

The  officers  are  picked  oflf  by  sharpshooters, 
as  flies  are  flicked  from  a  molasses  jug.  Two 
colonels  are  killed,  the  list  of  done  captains 
swells.  Then,  through  the  haze,  commanding 
the  first  division,  looms  a  prince  of  the  blood, 
the  general  whose  peeress-mother  is  but  this 
afternoon  smiling  serene  on  Tokyo  heights.  He 
below  Kinchow,  smoke-stained,  grimed  with 
death,  hears  the  artillery  report  that  ammuni- 
tion is  about  gone,  but  one  round  left  and  Nan- 
shan  still  Russian.  Defeat  stares  Prince-Gen- 
eral in  the  face.  Retreat,  disgrace  seems  right 
ahead.    And  orders  were  to  "  take  Port  Arthur." 


TWO    PICTURES    OF   WAR       79 

Smiling,  he  tells  the  gunners  to  wait.  "  Charge 
again,"  he  says. 

So  up  they  go,  for  the  tenth  and  last  time.  At 
the  top  more  civilized  warfare.  Spottsylvania 
Court  House  was  no  more  savage.  Japanese 
bayonets  clash  with  Russian  sabers.  Bayonets 
struck  from  hands  they  grasp  knives  carried 
suicidally  in  belts.  Thus,  hand  to  hand,  they 
grapple,  sweat,  bleed,  shout,  expire.  The 
veneer  of  centuries  sloughed,  as  a  snake  his 
cast-off  skin,  they  spit  and  chew,  claw  and  grip 
as  their  forefathers  beyond  the  memory  of 
man. 

The  Prince-General  waits,  ready  to  fire  his 
last  round,  and  retreat,  hopeless.  It  has  been  a 
desperate  fight — yes,  reckless,  unparalleled.  If 
lost  he  loses  nobly.  "Are  you  through.  Gen- 
eral?" his  aide  asks.  "I  have  just  begun  my 
part  of  the  fighting,"  he  answers.  His  name  is 
Fushimi — remember  it.  As  he  speaks  a  weak 
cry  goes  up — weak  because  even  victory  cannot 
rouse  spirits  so  terribly  taxed. 

It  was  a  bloody  sun  going  down  in  Korea  Bay 
that  night,  but  it  saw  its  rising  counterpart 
flaunting  above  Nanshan,  while  the   Russians 


8o  PORT   ARTHUR 

were  making  use  of  the  best  part  of  their 
apparel,  sprinting  towards  the  Tiger's  Tail. 

The  cost!  The  fleeing  ones  left  five  hundred 
corpses  in  the  four  trenches.  The  others  paid 
seven  times  that  price — killed  and  wounded — to 
turn  across  the  page  of  the  world's  warfare  that 
word  Nanshan,  in  company  with  two  others, 
perhaps  above  them — Balaklava  and  Mission- 
ary Ridge. 

Now  who  pays  for  this  war? 


Chapter  Four 

THE   JAPANESE   KITCHENER 

nEADQUARTERS,  Third  Imperial 
Army,  Before  Port  Arthur,  Oct. 
1 2th: 

"  Goddama's  here  I" 
"Who?" 

"General  Goddam — what's  his  name?" 
"Kodama?" 

"That's  it.  Who  is  he?  They  couldn't  do 
more  for  the  Emperor — special  train,  guard 
mounted,  and  all  that.  He  came  while  I  was 
in  the  staff  tent — a  mite  of  a  fellow  in  a  huge 
coat." 

Thus  Villiers  two  weeks  ago  announced  the 
advent  to  the  army  of  the  Chief  of  the  General 
Staff.  Who  is  he?  The  soldiers  know,  for 
they  have  a  verse  in  their  interminable  war  song: 

"  On  with  Nippon,  down  with  Russia 
Is  the  badge  of  our  beh'ef ; 
The  Son  of  Heaven  sends  us  sake, 
And  Kodama  sends  us  beef !  " 
8i 


82  PORT   ARTHUR 

But  who  is  he?  A  poor,  unlettered  samurai  of 
the  famous  Censhu  clan  who  to-day,  at  fifty-tw^o 
years  of  age,  rules  Japan  and  guides  her  armies. 
Many  will  dispute  this.  They  will  tell  you  that 
the  illustrious  Mutsuhito,  member  of  the  oldest 
dynasty  in  the  world,  rules  Japan.  They  be- 
lieve that  the  Marshal  Marquis  Oyama  and  the 
Marshal  Marquis  Yamagata,  veteran  spirits, 
great  warriors,  shrewd  in  counsel,  valorous  in 
conflict,  guide  their  armies.  They  forget,  per- 
haps they  do  not  know,  that  Gentaro  Kodama, 
whose  rank  is  that  of  Lieutenant-General,  his 
title  Baron,  his  position  Assistant  Chief  of  the 
General  Staff,  thinks  while  the  others  sleep  and 
works  while  the  others  eat;  that  the  "  illustrious 
ones"  may  "guide"  and  "rule."  People  sel- 
dom know  the  boss  behind  the  President,  the 
power  behind  the  throne,  or  the  advisor  at  the 
general's  ear. 

Most  public  men  in  Japan  will  tell  you  that 
Kodama  is  an  unsafe  person  of  second-rate 
capacity.  That  is  what  the  Directorate  said  of 
Napoleon,  it  is  what  Halleck  and  his  staff  said 
of  Grant,  it  is  what  the  Crown  Prince  said  of 
Von  Moltke.     They  will  tell  you  that  his  charge 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER     83 

of  the  commissary  and  transport  in  the  China 
war  was  an  accident.  That  is  what  the  Director- 
ate said  of  Napoleon  after  Egypt,  what  Halleck 
said  of  Grant  after  Donelson  and  Henry,  what 
the  Crown  Prince  said  of  Von  Moltke  before 
the  Franco-Prussian  war. 

The  public  men  sent  Kodama  to  Formosa  to 
get  rid  of  him,  as  Napoleon  was  sent  to  Italy, 
as  Grant  was  sent  to  Pittsburg  Landing,  as  Von 
Moltke  was  shipped  from  Metz.  Kodama  went 
and  raised  Formosa  from  savagery  to  commerce 
and  prosperity.  He  could  have  been  Prime 
Minister.  *'  No,"  he  said.  "  I  would  rather 
pull  strings  than  be  one  of  the  strings  to  be 
pulled.  Russia  is  peeking  up  over  the  border. 
Let  us  prepare.  Give  me  a  desk  in  the  War 
Office." 

The  public  men  shook  hands,  grateful  that  the 
unsafe  upstart  was  out  of  the  way.  Only  sol- 
diers and  seers  foresee  war.  Kodama  is  not  a 
seer.  The  public  men  reveled  in  peace  and 
wondered  occasionally  that  Kodama  should  bury 
himself  in  that  dry  hole  of  a  war  office.  They 
were  grateful  because  the  unsafe  upstart  kept 
out  of  the  way. 


84  PORT    ARTHUR 

Then  the  war  came  and  what  a  scrimmage 
there  was  as  the  public  men  scrambled  for  place! 
One  had  his  finger  on  things;  this  only  one  knew 
just  where,  when  and  how  to  strike.  He  alone 
knew  where  every  merchant  steamer  in  Japan 
was  and  how  quick  each  could  be  turned  into  a 
transport.  He  alone  knew  the  points  in  the 
Korean  coast  where  an  army  could  be  landed 
and  how  quick  it  could  be  gotten  there.  Above 
all  he  had  audacity — the  audacity  of  genius. 
His  name  was  Gentaro  Kodama,  sometime  mili- 
tary governor  of  Formosa,  sometime  chief  of 
the  etape  bureau. 

How  shameful  for  the  upstart  to  command! 
He  had  never  left  his  native  land.  He  spoke 
only  Japanese.  He  had  a  most  vulgar  way  of 
pitching  into  things,  of  living  on  the  tick  of  the 
watch,  of  showing  people  in  and  out  minus 
ceremony,  of  laughing  as  a  boy  might  at  the 
things  he  liked  and  of  frowning  ingenuously 
at  what  displeased  him.  More  horrors!  He 
scorned  a  frock  coat  for  ordinary  wear  and  stuck 
to  a  kimono.  Only  upstarts  defy  the  fashions. 
Sometimes,  however,  the  upstart  happens  to  be 
a  great  man — a  Socrates  barefoot,  a  Grant  with- 


From  Slcrcografh,  Ca/ijri^lu  hi  II.   (..   Il'hite  Co.^N.    7' 

GENERAL  BARON   KODAMA 

The  photograph  shows  the  Chief  of  thi  Japanese  Staff 
oil  liis  doorstep 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER     85 

out  his  shoulder  straps.  Now  there  were  plenty 
of  men  who  had  been  abroad,  who  could  speak 
French  and  English  perfectly,  who  could  crease 
their  trousers  and  who  could  add  the  proper  dig- 
nity to  a  function.  Besides,  Kodama  was  only 
a  lieutenant-general,  of  whom  the  realm  had  a 
dozen  others,  to  say  nothing  of  four  full  gen- 
erals, two  field  marshals  and  an  emperor.  Why 
should  he  run  the  war? 

But  Yamagata  and  Oyama  knew  and  the 
Emperor  knew.  They  were  too  keen  not  to  see 
and  they  were  too  patriotic  to  let  Japan  suffer. 
They  could  not  give  Kodama  the  place,  but  they 
crowned  him  with  power.  So  to-day  he  has  the 
only  coach  on  the  Japanese  end  of  the  Trans- 
Siberian  railway  and  is  the  first  to  pass  over  the 
rebuilt  road  from  Liaoyang  to  within  sight  of 
Port  Arthur. 

Yamagata  stays  in  Tokyo,  one  foot  in  the 
grave,  holding  himself  to  work  with  will  and 
prayer,  snowed  with  seventy  years,  in  counsel 
with  the  Emperor;  Oyama,  loved  by  the  people, 
always  a  figurehead,  goes  to  command  the  north- 
ern armies,  and  Nogi  is  given  the  glory  of  re- 
ducing   the    "  Gibraltar    of    the    East,"    but 


86  PORT    ARTHUR 

Kodama,  with  his  hands  on  everything,  the 
brains  of  all,  unifies  the  whole.  I  saw  him  leave 
Tokyo,  cheered  by  the  coolies  of  the  streets,  who, 
like  the  Emperor  and  his  marshals,  know.  Al- 
ready the  campaign  was  in  his  hands.  He  went 
straight  to  Liaoyang  and  saw  the  first  great  blow 
struck  at  Kuropatkin.  Then  he  came  here, 
stayed  two  days,  saw  his  plans  being  effected  to 
his  satisfaction  and  got  back  to  Liaoyang  before 
the  battle  of  the  Shaho.  It  was  on  his  way  back, 
during  the  day's  rest  in  Dalny,  that  I  saw  him 
for  the  second  time,  when  he  granted  me  an 
interview,  in  which  he  made  his  first  public 
utterance. 

Certain  names  flash  across  an  age  as  meteors 
across  a  sky.  Caesar  and  Napoleon  are  such 
names  to  the  student  of  history,  Bernhardt  and 
Irving  to  the  lover  of  the  stage,  Shakespeare  to 
the  man  of  books.  Their  mere  pronouncement 
has  a  mysterious  power,  some  occult  influence 
to  startle  and  make  dumb.  Like  a  searchlight's 
flare  they  throw  one  into  a  hopeless  sense  of  in- 
significance and  awe.  So  it  was  with  me,  a  stu- 
dent of  the  war,  when  Villiers  uttered  that  word, 
"  Goddama,"   two  weeks  ago.     I   recalled  the 


THE   JAPANESE    KITCHENER     87 

months  in  Tokyo  when  we  stormed  the  war 
office  in  vain,  how  London,  Washington  and 
Berlin  brought  their  influences  to  bear,  how  the 
cabinet  was  assembled,  how  the  ministers 
pleaded  that  correspondents,  creators  of  that 
,  vast,  indefinable  power  called  "  public  opinion  " 
have  some  rights.  Kodama  said  they  had  no 
rights ;  they  might  have  privileges,  but  no  rights. 
One  day  a  grave-faced  official  announced:  "I 
am  very  sorry,  gentlemen,  but  you  will  have  to 
wait  the  pleasure  of  General  Kodama.  We 
have  done  all  we  could  for  you.  The  question 
now  is,  shall  the  ministers  or  Kodama  run  the 
war?  I  much  fear  Kodama  is  the  man  of  the 
hour." 

Thus  the  name  rose  over  me  as  a  symbol  of 
power  and  hauteur.  Three  days  ago  I  started  to 
Dalny  from  the  front  to  lay  in  stores.  There 
was  a  four-  or  five-mile  walk  to  Cho-ray-che,  the 
field  base  where  acres  are  covered  with  rice  and 
ammunition  cases  and  where  a  shattered  Russian 
station  is  being  used  by  the  Japanese  commis- 
sary. On  the  siding  lay  the  train  of  flat  cars  we 
were  to  take.  In  the  center  was  the  first  coach 
seen  on  the  Liaotung  since  the  battle  of  Nanshan, 


88  PORT   ARTHUR 

May  26th.  It  was  an  ordinary  Japanese  third- 
class  coach,  with  paneled  doors  for  each  com- 
partment, and  hard  seats.  Out  of  the  corner 
chimney  rose  a  whiflf  of  smoke  and  it  was  easy 
to  see  what  an  improvement  even  those  hard 
seats  would  be  over  the  tops  of  ammunition  cases 
where  there  was  a  three-hour  ride  to  be  made  in 
the  face  of  a  sleet  Manchurian  wind. 

"  Back  to  civilization,"  I  cried. 

"Not  for  us,"  said  Gotoh,  my  interpreter. 
"That  is  General  Kodama's  coach.  It  was 
transported  especially  for  him  and  he  has  just 
brought  it  down  from  Liaoyang." 

Then  I  saw  him,  with  his  salient,  pointed  chin, 
and  his  goatee  like  a  French  noble,  bent  over  an 
improvised  table,  scanning  papers.  Five  or  six 
members  of  his  staff  gazed  lazily  out  at  a  com- 
pany of  soldiers  doing  fatigue  duty  with  the 
empty  ammunition  cases,  swarming  up  over  the 
track  and  back  again,  human  ants.  They  had 
heard  the  captain  say  the  eyes  of  Kodama  were 
upon  them  and  they  worked  feverishly,  with 
rhythmical  precision.  The  General  never  saw 
them.  His  staff  did,  but  he  had  work  to  do,  and 
he  knew  the  men  were  doing  theirs. 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER     89 

As  we  lay  shivering  on  that  jolty  ride  into 
Dalny,  day  dying  out  with  bursts  of  grand  color 
and  night  coming  in  to  the  orchestral  music  of 
battle  opening  in  our  rear,  Gotoh  snuggled 
among  the  empty  cases  at  my  feet,  pulled  his 
overcoat  about  his  head,  and  hummed  a  song 
composed  by  the  biwa  players  of  Kioto: 

"As  a  slender  boat  alone  in  a  great  storm,"  it 
ran,  "so  Japan  sails  the  sea  of  modern  civiliza- 
tion; does  she  not  then  need  great  leaders  for 
her  forty  million  souls!" 

The  mudflats  of  the  bay  were  chocolate 
brown  in  late  sunset  as  we  turned  south  and  slid 
into  the  city,  shivering,  crouched  low  on  the 
pouches  kept  huge  for  bullets  anon.  Two  kero- 
sene lamps  in  the  coach  and  the  sparks  from  the 
engine  streaked  the  night  as  we  tooted  into  the 
revamped  station  of  spruce  and  corrugated  tin 
which  stands  where  the  hole  in  the  ground  was 
out  of  which  the  Russians  blew  their  beautiful 
Byzantine  architecture.  We  slipped  to  the 
ground,  cold,  hungry,  tired,  and  slouched  under 
the  two  arc  lights  that  make  Dalny  a  brilliant 
metropolis  after  our  six  weeks  around  camp 
fires  and  tallow  dips. 


90  PORT   ARTHUR 

Hurrying  along  I  suddenly  found  myself  in 
a  group  of  officers  bound  the  same  way.  All 
but  one  instinctively  fell  back  and  left  me  ahead 
with  a  tub  of  a  man  in  a  fur  coat  and  a  red  cap 
with  two  braid  stripes  which  told  him  to  be  a 
lieutenant-general.  Swathed  to  his  ankles  in 
an  overcoat  of  thick  martens  he  looked  huge,  but 
the  two  red  braids  and  the  star  of  Nippon  were 
level  with  my  armpit.  When  he  shook  hands 
he  lost  all  the  clumsiness  of  the  fur.  As  his 
fingers  grasped  mine  in  real  earnest  there  passed 
from  them  the  spirit  of  the  island  empire — its 
tinir.ess,  its  audacity,  its  febrile  intensity — for 
the  grip  was  sinuous  and  sure  as  the  clasp  of  a 
wild  thing,  hearty  and  elegant  as  a  comrade's. 
He  walked  with  the  stately  swing  of  a  star  actor, 
poised  his  cigar  with  the  air  of  a  gentleman  of 
leisure  and  smiled  roguishly  on  me  as  he  talked. 
A  word  brought  a  thin  man  in  spectacles — his 
secretary — from  the  group  behind.  Through 
him  the  General  said  he  had  not  seen  a  foreigner 
in  three  months,  he  remembered  me  from  a 
chance  word  over  a  tiffin  in  the  Shiba  detached 
palace  last  May,  and  would  I  be  kind  enough  to 
call  on  him  to-morrow  when  he  would  have  a 


THE   JAPANESE    KITCHENER    91 

day  of  rest  before  his  trip  north  toward  the 
Shaho.  We  parted  at  the  first  corner  and  he 
walked  on  with  his  stately  swing,  which  his 
enemies  call  the  strut  of  a  turkey  cock,  his  staff 
grouped  artistically  behind. 

Dalny  bristled  with  the  military.  The  base 
now  of  all  the  armies,  it  had  become  a  huge  sup- 
ply depot  through  which  passed  the  food  and 
ammunition  for  a  third  of  a  million  men,  and  to 
which  poured  the  dribble  of  wounded.  Every 
house  in  the  Russian  quarter,  including  two 
magnificent  churches  and  the  fine  hotel,  were 
used  for  hospitals,  in  which  four  thousand 
patients  then  were.  A  hospital  ship  left  every 
day  for  Japan,  carrying  from  200  to  1,000 
wounded  and  prisoners.  Each  day  a  transport 
came  in  bearing  twice  as  many  fresh  troops.  A 
brigade  had  just  landed  and  was  to  be  sent 
north  at  dawn  to  take  the  place  of  the  lost 
in  the  Liaoyang  battle.  There  was  no  bar- 
rack room,  and  though  the  general  wore  a 
fur  coat  his  men  stacked  arms  on  the  curbs 
and  slept  on  the  pavements.  It  was  two  days 
after  the  arrival  of  the  advance  guard  of 
the  civic  invasion  of  Manchuria.    Fifteen  Tokyo 


92  PORT    ARTHUR 

and  Osacca  merchants  had  left  home  with 
all  their  fortunes  to  try  luck  in  a  new  land. 
In  a  Chinese  restaurant  that  night  I  met  one  of 
them,  an  old  Tokyo  friend  who  spoke  English. 
It  was  a  great  moment  in  his  life,  he  said,  this 
parting  with  the  old  and  taking  on  of  the  new. 
He  had  already  been  given  a  house  in  the  old 
Russian  quarter  at  a  nominal  rental,  which  he 
expected  later  to  acquire  from  his  government 
at  a  low  figure.  In  a  few  days  he  expected  to 
open  a  store.  He  asked  me  to  call  on  him  and 
gave  me  his  card  with  an  address  in  "  Nogi- 
machi."  Thus  I  learned  that  all  the  town 
has  been  re-christened.  The  old  Russian 
names  attached  to  the  elegant  streets  which 
looked  more  like  roads  among  fashionable 
English  villas  were  changed.  Japanese  gen- 
erals had  been  honored.  The  chief  hospital 
was  in  Oyamamachi,  the  etape  office  on  Yama- 
gatamachi,  the  reserve  detail  bivouacked  on 
Fukishimamachi  and  I  slept  on  Kurokimachi, 
In  Kodamamachi  Gotoh  and  I  the  next  day 
called  on  General  Kodama,  who  was  living  in 
the  Russian  Mayor's  house.  In  a  side  room 
where  the  secretary  ushered  us  we  waited  for  the 


THE   JAPANESE    KITCHENER    93 

General,  then  in  his  bath.  This  gave  us  time 
to  examine  the  house.  The  Mayor  was  the 
engineer  who  laid  out  Dalny,  and,  naturally,  he 
spread  himself  on  his  own  home.  Three  stories 
high,  with  a  wide  balcony,  a  yard  full  of  flowers 
and  a  big  brick  fence,  it  looks  out  on  the  conver- 
gence of  the  two  main  streets.  It  is  built  like  the 
early  palaces  on  what  is  now  Tar  Flat  in  San 
Francisco,  with  casements  two  feet  thick,  but- 
tressed by  solid  masonry.  The  walls  are  thick 
enough  to  harbor  great  Russian  stoves  and  bear 
evidence  to  the  coming  cold.  The  ceilings  are 
enormously  high,  the  double  windows  stained 
glass,  the  balustrades  massive,  the  flooring  of 
matched  hardwood  polished,  all  conveniences  in 
the  latest  modern  style.  I  know  of  no  house  in 
all  Japan  so  fine.  The  panels  were  scratched 
in  places  where  the  Chinese  bandits  had  sacked, 
and  there  was  little  furniture.  Otherwise,  all 
was  in  good  condition.  In  scorn  of  the  place 
the  Japanese  guard  had  slipped  his  neat,  low 
futon  into  an  alcove,  but  in  respect  he  stood  at 
"present  arms,"  his  rifle  loaded,  to  prevent  out- 
lawry. The  silence  was  deep,  the  dispatch  of 
business  swift.    Occasionally  a  messenger  passed 


94  PORT    ARTHUR 

through  the  hall,  with  no  hurry  and  with  no 
dignity.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  persuade 
Sherlock  Holmes  that  the  army  was  about. 

Presently  the  secretary  announced  that  the 
General  was  ready,  and  led  us  down  a  corridor 
to  a  side  room  on  the  west,  which  the  sunlight, 
falling  through  the  stained  windows,  dyed  pur- 
ple and  gold.  As  we  advanced  I  could  not  but 
think  of  the  superb  setting  Mansfield  gave  the 
throne  room  scene  in  "Richard  HI,"  and  how 
he  knelt  by  the  dais  as  the  light  died  out, 
whispering  to  himself,  "  Richard,  to  thy 
work!" 

Here  there  was  no  false  splendor,  only  the 
light  of  purple  and  gold — and  a  great  char- 
acter. I  felt  his  presence  before  he  advanced 
to  meet  me  with  a  lithe  stride.  He  shook  hands 
with  the  intensity  of  the  night  before  and  again 
I  felt  that  clasp  as  of  a  palm  all  sinew  and 
nerves.  But  there  was  gayety  in  his  gesture 
as  he  threw  his  hands  out,  palms  up,  like 
a  Frenchman,  and  bade  me  welcome.  He  wore 
a  kimono  and  slippers — nothing  more.  I  could 
see  the  bare  V  sloping  in  to  his  chest,  thin  and 
skin-drawn,  and  it  was  plain  where  the  brown 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER     95 

of  sun-tan  shaded  into  the  clothes-covered  white. 
He  stepped  back  around  a  table  and,  dropping 
the  slippers,  climbed  into  a  great  chair,  against 
whose  russet  leather  he  nestled  the  kimono 
and  became  lost,  curling  his  bare  toes  under, 
whence,  from  time  to  time,  they  peeked  and 
wiggled. 

Overwhelmed  by  his  littleness,  for  the  swivel 
armchair  could  easily  have  held  three  generals 
like  him  and  have  had  room  left,  top  and  bot- 
tom, for  several  colonels  and  a  major,  I  thought 
of  the  huge  overcoat  of  the  night  before  and  re- 
membered what  Lincoln  said  to  Grant  when  the 
two  met  Alexander  H.  Stephens  in  a  similar 
greatcoat  on  the  River  Queen  in  the  fall  of  '64: 
"That  certainly  is  the  littlest  ear  out  of  the  big- 
gest shuck  that  ever  I  did  see." 

Gotoh  and  the  General  plunged  into  the  laby- 
rinths of  the  impossible  Japanese  language  and 
left  me  to  the  joy  of  studying  the  toes  and  mus- 
taches of  this  remarkable  personality.  He  did 
not  touch  his  mustaches,  which,  though  long, 
had  none  of  the  ordinary  poise  and  polish.  No. 
They  partook  of  the  nature  of  the  man  and 
seemed  the  superficial  ganglia  of  his  sensitive 


96  PORT   ARTHUR 

alertness.  Three  single  hairs  from  each  side, 
twisted  in  a  loose  wisp,  glimmed  the  air  furi- 
ously like  the  whiskers  of  a  cat,  as  the  General's 
salient,  pointed  chin  chopped  out  the  sentences. 
Then  I  noticed  a  phenomenon.  While  the  body 
of  the  mustache  and  the  whiskers  on  one  side 
were  as  black  as  my  coat,  untouched  by  time,  the 
right  wisp  was  white  with  hoary  snow.  It  was 
as  if  the  Genius  of  his  time  had  selected  him 
from  among  the  common  race  of  men  and 
touched  him  there. 

"The  General  wishes  to  apologize  for  receiv- 
ing you  this  way — in  a  kimono."  At  last  the 
interpreter  spoke,  after  the  two  had  been  chat- 
tering several  minutes.  Could  it  really  be  the 
great  General  familiar  with  a  mere  man  of 
words  like  Gotoh,  so  insinuating  the  smile,  so 
comradely  the  gossip?  Yet,  doubtless,  in  that 
few  minutes  he  got  from  Gotoh  every  pertinent 
rag  of  information  the  interpreter  had  about  me. 
"  But  he  has  been  a  long  time  without  the  luxury 
of  a  good  bath,  and  the  Russian  Mayor  left  a 
fine  one " 

"Tell  the  General,"  I  Interrupted,  "that  he 
is  the  first  man  I  have  met  in  six  months  who 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER     97 

has  given  me  the  satisfaction  of  appearing  as  he 
is.  This  is  his  finest  tribute  to  Western  civiliza- 
tion— informality." 

Then  they  went  at  it  again — chattering.  The 
General,  thrusting  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
banged  his  chops  into  his  palms,  and,  with  his 
eyes,  pierced  first  me,  then  Gotoh,  a  roguish 
twinkle  lighting  up  his  face  for  an  instant  to  be 
replaced  by  the  curl  of  irony  on  his  lips.  Could 
this  be  the  man  of  lightning  decision,  and  of 
iron  will,  who  gave  the  order  on  February  8th 
to  attack  Port  Arthur  before  a  declaration  of 
war?  I  looked  at  his  head,  round  and  small  like 
a  bullet,  yet  singularly  long  from  nose  bridge 
to  dome.  The  absence  of  excess  tissue,  skin 
stretched  tight  over  parietal  bones  and  neck 
scrawny  from  spirited  strain,  together  with  a 
peculiar  atmosphere  of  concentration  and  mas- 
tery which  invested  him,  said  it  was  as  full  of 
meat  as  an  Edam  cheese.  Not  a  statesman,  the 
ministers  say,  but  a  giant  of  organization,  a  mas- 
ter of  detail,  the  brains  of  new  Japan. 

Is  he  not  also  the  greatest  editor  in  the  history 
of  journalism?  Because  it  is  he  who  for  six 
months  has  cornered  the  news  market  of  the 


98  PORT    ARTHUR 

world,  so  that,  until  the  present  time,  not  a 
single  authentic  account  has  come  from  the  field 
except  those  issued  in  the  official  reports  of  his 
own  generals.  He  has  controlled  the  news  as  he 
has  controlled  the  armies — noiselessly,  perhaps 
clandestinely,  but  nevertheless  absolutely.  If 
the  telegraph  announces  Japanese  victories,  he 
reasoned,  the  public  will  not  listen  to  the  wail 
of  the  special  correspondent.  He  has  substi- 
tuted fact  for  criticism,  and,  like  the  Duke  of 
Wellington,  announces  his  victories  first,  his  re- 
verses afterward.  Now  that  the  campaign 
is  outlined  and  all  can  see  what  he  is  driving 
at,  the  time  for  speech  has  come;  so  he 
speaks. 

"  You  have  seen  Port  Arthur.  You  may  think 
it  easy  to  take,"  he  went  on  through  Gotoh.  I 
protested. 

"  It  is  not  easy,"  he  continued.  "  It  is  quite 
difficult  to  take." 

"  Of  course — of  course — thirty  forts — ten 
years  of  engineering — impregnable  natural  de- 
fenses— a  stubborn  army  of  great  fighters — 
clever  officers  to  face " 

"But "   he   reached   halfway   across   the 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER     99 

table,  not  waiting  for  Gotoh  to  tell  him  what  I 
said,  and  I  had  no  need  of  an  interpreter  to  know 
the  five  w^ords  he  uttered: 

"I  hold  Port  Arthur  there!"  I  looked  into 
the  hollow  of  his  hand,  twitching  nervously,  and 
saw  the  palm  that  is  without  bones,  the  palm  all 
nerves  and  sinew. 

"  But  where  will  the  army  winter?  You  are 
not  building  barracks.  You  have  only  shelter 
tents,  flimsy  as  paper,  which  the  Manchurian 
winds  would  laugh  at." 

*'  Do  not  worry.  You  shall  winter  inside. 
We  will  take  it  soon.  I  hesitate  to  use  the  big 
guns  for  fear  of  hurting  noncombatants." 

Then  the  tea  came,  via  a  soldier  whose 
shoulder  straps  bearing  the  figure  9  showed  him 
to  be  one  of  the  few  survivors  of  the  famous  9th 
regiment,  which  lost  94  per  cent,  of  its  men  in 
repeated  unsuccessful  assaults  on  the  Cock's 
Comb  forts  during  the  three  days  battle  from 
August  2 1  St  to  23d,  and  I  saw  that  Kodama,  like 
Nogi,  rewards  the  heroism  of  private  soldiers 
by  relieving  them  from  duty  on  the  firing  line 
and  giving  them  honorable  work  as  body 
servants. 


loo  PORT    ARTHUR 

The  General  fondled  his  tea,  delicious  in  a 
lacquered  cup;  Giokuro  it  was,  the  best  Japan 
grows,  and  bits  of  the  leaf  glittered  in  the  bottom 
like  particles  of  steel.  The  steam  curled  about 
his  face.  He  lit  a  cigar,  pufifed  vigorously,  and 
smoke  wreathed  with  steam.  Through  the  haze 
his  whiskers,  twisted  in  a  loose  wisp,  bobbed 
spasmodically  as  his  pointed  chin  spat  out  the 
sentences.  He  pulled  himself  further  together, 
tying  his  legs  acrobatically,  and  made  room  in 
the  great  chair  for  still  another  general.  I  won- 
dered if  he  would  disappear  entirely,  wizard- 
like, in  a  cloud  of  smoke.  Then  I  thought  of 
that  criminal  condemned  to  capital  punishment, 
executed  in  experiment  by  the  tea  expert,  who 
drank  and  drank  until  he  shriveled  and  shrunk 
to  powdery  fiber.  Plainly  Giokuro,  Havana 
and  hot  baths  had  helped  hard  work  in  drying 
up  this  tiny  great  man. 

"We  can't  tell  what  damage  the  big  guns  will 
do,"  went  on  the  aspirate  voice  out  of  the  smoke. 
Gotoh  was  turning  over  the  sentences  now  as 
fast  as  they  came.  "  This  is  the  first  time  in  his- 
tory that  coast  defense  guns  have  battled  with 
each  other.    We  have  brought  ours  from  Japan. 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER   loi 

As  the  Russians  cannot  use  theirs  against  our 
navy  they  have  turned  them  landward." 

*' Why  not  against  your  navy?" 

"Because — "  he  quickly  drew  from  a  drawer 
a  brass  tube  attached  to  a  pot  of  India  ink.  Out 
of  the  tube  he  drew  a  brush  and  began  sketching 
nervously  on  a  piece  of  blotting  paper.  The 
brass  tube  was  a  yatate,  the  first  one  I  have  seen 
in  the  army.  Generations  before  siege  artillery 
Japanese  warriors  who  took  arrow  holders  from 
the  enemy  disgraced  them  by  converting  them 
into  ink  pots  and  brush  holders,  for  to  soil  a 
thing  with  business  in  those  days  was  to  disgrace 
it.  But  merchants  found  the  device  a  neat  in- 
vention and  -made  arrow  holders  in  miniature. 
The  idea  spread  and  soon  all  the  men  of  business 
in  the  empire  carried  yatates  in  their  belts.  The 
army  discarded  them  in  disgust.  Now  Kodama 
comes,  oblivious  of  tradition,  satisfying  his  ca- 
price and  comfort,  and  to  his  work,  as  a  samurai 
of  old,  introduces  the  yatate.  When  he  finds  the 
samurai  superstition  concerning  the  gaining  of 
eternal  life  by  a  soldier  killed  in  battle  of  value 
in  his  chess  game  of  war  he  cherishes  the  belief, 
but  when  the  silly  prejudice  against  business 


102  PORT   ARTHUR 

gets  in  his  way  he  cuts  acquaintance  with  the 
samurai. 

Quickly,  under  the  yatate  brush,  there  grew 
a  sketch  of  Port  Arthur  and  the  peninsula — 
curves  for  the  east  and  west  harbor,  a  cross  for 
the  town,  fuzz  for  Liaotishan,  a  loop  for  the 
Tiger's  Tail.  Then  from  east  to  west  of  the 
Liaotung  he  drew  a  dotted  line  in  a  semicircle 
and  paralleled  it  with  another  dotted  line. 

"Our  mines,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  outer; 
"their  mines,"  pointing  to  the  inner.  "We 
have  laid  a  series  of  electric  mines  counter  to 
theirs,  which,  if  firing  at,  they  explode,  will 
ignite  their  series  and  damage  their  coast  de- 
fenses and  harbor.  Locked  in  this  mutual  min- 
ing our  navy  and  their  coast  defense  must  remain 
inactive,  as  neither  cares  to  take  an  initiative. 
So  they  have  turned  not  only  their  coast  defense, 
but  their  navy  guns  landward.  We,  in  reply, 
have  landed  our  navy  guns  and  brought  from 
Japan  our  coast  defense  artillery.  So  you  will 
see  the  spectacle  of  two  great  naval  equipments 
fighting  on  land.  I  wish  I  could  bring  all  the 
tacticians  in  the  world  to  witness.  There  will 
be   much   to   learn   for   future   warfare."     He 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER   103 

puffed  vigorously.  The  whiskers  poised  them- 
selves. His  eyes,  looking  at  the  sketch,  were 
lost  in  introspection.  He  was  reveling  in  the 
situation. 

"You  think  it,  then,  a  battle  of  strategists?" 
''Only  that.  This  is  entirely  a  game  of  strat- 
egy. The  chief  question  is :  are  our  naval  and 
siege  guns,  reinforced  by  field  artillery,  more 
powerful  than  their  naval  and  coast  defenses 
reinforcing  the  forts?  Lesser  questions  concern 
the  individual  generalship  of  divisions  and 
brigades." 

"  But  the  boy  in  khaki — is  he  not  the  deciding 
force?"  My  mind  ran  back  to  those  terrible 
August  days  when  I  lay  in  the  broiling  sun 
watching  the  soldiers  hurled  against  the  barbed 
wire,  under  the  machine  guns,  onto  the  para- 
pets, only  to  melt  away  like  chaff  before  the 
wind.  I  thought  of  the  night  in  the  storm  when 
the  general  in  command  gave  the  order  to  re- 
treat, but  before  his  aide  could  deliver  it  to  the 
colonel  in  the  field,  the  soldiers,  impatient,  went 
in  and  took  the  opposing  trenches.  I  thought  of 
all  the  sights  in  that  mighty  game  I  had  just 
left;  great  guns  in  the  shock  of  battle  peppered 


104  PORT    ARTHUR 

by  shrapnel  but  holding  to  their  work  like  bull- 
dogs on  the  grip,  the  sappers  creeping  with  pick 
and  shovel  through  the  night  hounded  by  shells, 
the  pioneers  going  up  with  pincers  to  nip  the 
wire  met  by  the  death  sprinkle  of  Maxims,  the 
infantry  in  a  thin  brown  line  following,  the  men 
popped  out  as  expert  drivers  flick  off  flies  with 
a  whiplash,  but  advancing,  advancing,  till  a 
handful  out  of  a  host  creeps  up,  and  flings  itself, 
fanatical  with  the  lust  of  battle,  worn  in  the  gory 
charge  so  that  life  never  can  be  the  same  again 
in  sweetness  and  in  peace,  into  the  redoubt  paid 
for  a  dozen  times  with  blood,  and  which  even 
then  is  but  curtain  raiser  for  drama  still  more 
heartrending,  because,  beyond,  rising  tier  on 
tier,  series  after  series,  are  redoubts  and  forts, 
trenches  and  barbed  wire,  moats  and  gorges, 
rifles  and  cannon  until  the  soul  grows  sick  with 
the  thought  that  Port  Arthur  must  be  bought 
with  sacrifice  so  great,  agony  so  monstrous. 

*'No,"  said  Kodama.  "This  is  a  question  of 
military  strategy."  He  thrust  the  yatate  from 
him,  stretched  back  into  his  chair  and  puffed 
cigar  wreathings  into  the  air.  They  looked  like 
the  smoke  of  a  volley  from  a  battery  of  howitzers. 


{ 


THE   JAPANESE    KITCHENER  105 

As  he  settled  down  to  the  talk  again,  sometimes 
his  eyes  flashing,  sometimes  his  mustaches,  one 
black,  the  other  white  with  a  venerable  sign, 
twitching,  his  bare  toes  twisting  with  suppressed 
energy,  I  thought  I  saw  a  huge  black  spider 
serene  in  the  Russian  chair. 

"Will  you  bring  any  more  reserves?" 

"  No.  We  have  an  army  large  enough  to  take 
Port  Arthur.  The  enemy  has  about  20,000  men, 
we  about  60,000.  Three  to  one  makes  the  odds 
about  even  when  you  consider  the  defenses. 
More  men  are  not  necessary.  It  is  not  a  ques- 
tion of  men  now,  but  of  ammunition  and  gen- 
eralship." 

"  How  about  food?  It  has  been  reported  that 
you  let  junks  and  even  transports  run  the  block- 
ade, that  you  won't  starve  them  out,  but  want  the 
glory  of  forcing  them  to  surrender?" 

His  eyes  snapped  as  he  answered:  "That 
is  absolutely  false.  We  have  them  entirely 
hemmed  in  and  maintain  a  perfect  blockade." 

"Do  you  find  the  forts  stronger  than  you  ex- 
pected?" 

"They  are  very  well  built — on  the  Belgian 
model,  I  believe.    They  are  like  the  forts  on  the 


io6  PORT    ARTHUR 

Belgian  frontier  where  the  lay  is  similar. 
Toward  the  sea  side  they  are  iron  plated,  but 
toward  us  there  is  only  earth,  with  some  con- 
crete and  masonry.  It  is  the  arrangement  that 
puzzles  us.  A  very  clever  engineer  must  have 
devised  them,  for  we  find  an  absolute  change 
from  the  Chinese  war  of  ten  years  ago  when  we 
took  Port  Arthur  in  a  day.  Then,  one  fort,  Issu- 
san,  taken  the  others  fell.  That  was  the  key  to 
the  position.  Now,  one  cannot  say  that  any 
single  fort  is  the  key.  All  are  so  arranged  we 
must  take  them  in  detail.  The  capture  of  one 
means  only  the  capture  of  an  individual  fort,  not 
of  a  series  as  in  the  old  days.  Study  as  we  may 
we  find  it  difficult  to  minimize  their  strength. 
They  have  even  carried  the  fortifications  to  such 
an  extent  that  the  sea  escarpments  jut  over  and 
they  bathe  there  with  ease  and  safety." 

He  looked  so  cosy  in  his  kimono,  redolent  of 
the  bath,  that  I  ventured:  "You  envy  them, 
then.  Aha!  This  is  the  secret  of  Japanese  per- 
sistence. The  Russians  have  such  a  fine  place 
to  bathe." 

He  gurgled  and  continued:  "We  began  yes- 
terday to  shell  with  our  new  guns — the  Osacca 


THE    JAPANESE    KITCHENER   107 

mortars.  It  will  be  most  interesting  to  watch 
their  effect  on  the  earth  forts." 

The  General  paused.  It  was  time  to  go.  We 
had  taken  the  better  part  of  an  hour  from  him. 
We  rose.  He  slipped  from  the  chair,  tickled 
his  toes  into  his  slippers,  and  threw  his  shoul- 
ders back  jauntily,  giving  himself  the  air  that  a 
little  man  does  unconsciously  when  a  sense  of 
the  physical  is  borne  in  upon  him. 

Then  I  felt  that  creepy  clasp  as  of  a  boneless 
hand.  When  I  closed  the  door  he  crept  back  to 
his  perch.  So  I  left  him,  noiseless  leader  of 
forty  millions,  swathed  in  the  great  Russian 
chair,  lost  in  the  Mayor's  Byzantine  house, 
withered  to  essence  like  a  tea  leaf. 

And  his  salary  is  the  same  as  that  of  a  con- 
gressman of  the  United  States. 


Chapter  Five 

CAMP 

EFORE  Port  Arthur,  Headquarters 
Third  Imperial  Army,  Oct.  9th: 
We  have  left  the  mountain — the 
Phoenix — where  by  day  we  saw  artil- 
lery duels  and  by  night  flashes  of  lightning 
illumining  the  big  guns,  while  the  plains  stood 
out  under  the  searchlights.  There  we  could 
step  from  our  lunch  table  and,  down  the  clifif, 
look  into  the  upturned  ecstasy  of  a  victorious 
army,  or  feel  the  dull  weight  of  its  despair  surge 
in  and  close  upon  us. 

Now  we  are  with  the  army,  part  of  it.  From 
the  Manchurian  hut,  where  we  live  in  insect 
powder,  on  tinned  beef,  biscuit  and  jam,  we  go 
a  few  rods  to  a  plateau  and  look  into  Port 
Arthur.  The  path  of  the  army  can  be  traced  by 
beer  bottles — Asahi,  Yebisu,  Kabuta  and  Saporo 
— but  in  all  the  army  there  is  not  a  guardhouse. 

If  the  company  has  a  man  who  doesn't  smoke 

108 


CAMP  109 

cigarettes  he  is  pointed  out  as  a  curiosity;  the 
empty  boxes — Peacock,  Tokiwa,  Pinhead,  Old 
Rip,  Cherry  and  Star — dot  the  fields  thick  as 
the  beer  bottles;  the  price  of  a  box  is  two  days' 
pay;  there  is  no  way  to  have  money  sent  from 
Japan  to  the  front,  but  a  field  savings  bank  to 
take  it  back;  and  yet,  into  this  field  bank,  from 
the  three  cents  a  day  pay,  in  spite  of  the  beer  and 
the  cigarettes,  over  $10,000  has  gone  since  the 
opening  of  the  campaign.  Approach  a  battery 
and  find  a  lot  of  uncouth  boys,  gentle  and 
friendly  as  children,  curious  as  savages,  as  lack- 
ing in  assertion  as  a  comedian  off  the  stage;  you 
take  them  for  menials,  for  most  Americans  in 
such  a  place  would  carry  mountains  of  dignity 
and  be  covered  with  placards,  "  hands  off." 
These  are  expert  gunners,  handling  scientific 
instruments,  and  yet  simple.  Generals  the  same! 
It  is  an  unaccountable  thing,  this  naturalness 
and  modesty,  like  the  morality  of  a  man  of 
genius.  A  paradox?  Yes;  when  you  think  of 
what  fighters  they  are!  But  how  does  a  hen 
know  when  to  turn  her  eggs,  and  where  does  a 
girl  carry  her  powder  puff? 

But  to  us,  of  whom  there  are  three — Fred- 


no  PORT    ARTHUR 

eric  Villiers,  the  war  artist,  James  Ricalton,  the 
war  photographer,  and  myself.  The  public 
knows  about  Villiers,  hero  of  Plevna  and  the 
Soudan,  discoverer  of  artistic  Abyssinia,  deco- 
rated by  seven  governments,  veteran  of  seven- 
teen campaigns,  dean  of  the  war  correspondents, 
who  has  traveled  the  world  round  lecturing, 
sketching,  writing.  The  public  knows  less  of 
Ricalton,  one  of  its  obscure  great  men.  He  has 
gone  through  a  long  life  with  his  nose  to  his 
work,  like  a  dog  to  a  scent,  heedless  of  fame  and 
money.  He  is  original,  alone,  and  has  done 
things  no  other  man  has  done.  It  was  he  that 
Thomas  A.  Edison  sent  into  all  the  tropical 
jungles  twenty  years  ago  to  search  for  a  vege- 
table fiber  for  the  electric  lamp.  He  took  most 
of  the  photographs  for  John  H.  Stoddard's  lec- 
tures. He  was  the  first  foreigner  to  walk 
through  northern  Russia,  1,500  miles  from 
Archangel  to  St.  Petersburg.  He  has  traveled 
through  every  country  on  the  globe,  exposing 
75,000  negatives,  and  has  photographed  most  of 
the  great  men  of  his  generation.  Of  late  years 
he  has  become  one  of  the  most  expert  of  war 
photographers.     In  the  Philippines  he  was  the 


CAMP  III 

only  man  to  get  troops  actually  firing  on  the  foe. 
At  the  battle  of  Caloocan  a  soldier  near  him  was 
winged;  Ricalton  picked  up  the  useless  rifle, 
grabbed  the  cartridge  belt  and  went  up  with  the 
skirmishers.  At  the  siege  of  Tien  Tsin  he  stood 
on  the  walls  and  photographed  Americans  as 
they  were  dropped  by  Chinese  bullets.  Little 
the  public  knows  when  it  sees  photographs  of 
war  how  few  of  them  come  from  the  front. 
Ricalton  is  one  of  the  few  who  gets  the  real 
thing.  He  is  sixty  years  old,  yet  he  tramps  ten 
and  twenty  miles  a  day  with  a  thirty-pound  cam- 
era under  his  arm,  for  he  sneers  at  the  snap  shot 
and  will  carry  a  tripod.  Yet  he  outlasts  the 
young  men  on  the  march.  Here  he  goes  every- 
where— into  captured  forts  while  the  corpses 
are  still  about,  through  the  most  dangerous  artil- 
lery positions,  among  reserves  waiting  for  battle, 
into  the  actual  fighting  if  they  would  let  him. 
To-day  he  is  off  to  gratify  one  of  his  few  remain- 
ing ambitions,  for  he  is  sighing  like  Alexander 
at  already  exhausting  the  world.  He  wants  to 
get  one  of  the  new  siege  shells,  500  weight,  as  it 
leaves  the  gun  on  its  trip  to  the  battleships  in  the 
bay.     Four  of  these  shells  were  dropped  yester- 


112  PORT   ARTHUR 

day  into  the  Retvizan  and  Pallada.  To-day  the 
gunners  will  try  to  put  in  another.  Ricalton 
plans  to  have  his  camera  all  set  and  tilted  at  the 
proper  angle  behind.  Then  as  the  gunner  pulls 
the  lanyard  he  presses  the  bulb.  He  has  stuffed 
his  ears  with  cotton  so  the  shock  will  not  break 
the  drums,  for  a  gunner  yesterday  was  deafened 
for  life.  He  will  probably  be  hurled  to  the 
ground  and  his  camera  may  be  smashed,  but  he 
wants  that  shell  hurtling  through  the  air,  no 
bigger  than  a  bee,  while  the  dust  of  the  recoil 
curls  up  over  the  emplacement  and  all  the 
grand  tensity  of  power  and  motion  is  about 
the  place. 

"  Why  take  the  risk?  "  say  I,  "  when  you  can 
so  easily  take  the  gun  at  rest  and  then  paint  in  a 
little  dust  and  that  wee  dot  up  in  the  air." 

"  But  it  wouldn't  be  the  real  thing,"  said  he, 
as  he  started  ofif.  Then  I  saw  why  he  is  Rical- 
ton and  not  some  faker  at  his  ease  over  a  chem- 
ical tray  in  the  city.  Just  now,  looking  out  of 
the  window  under  which  I  write,  I  can  see  the 
battery  where  he  has  gone.  It  lies  snug  among 
the  hills,  two  great  guns  cocked  on  concrete  and 
flanked  by  howitzers  aloft  on  peaks.    The  Rus- 


3^ 


V 

O  -5 

^  5  D 

'U  -^  .— 

C  ^  ^ 

S  1-  v: 

— 3  r\  c 


-:=    5 


05    a>    n 

-ill    t. 

_,    *^    b 


2  o  •- 1 

-3     :^     p 


5     l-i 
■■J  —  '; 


1) 


c1 


CAMP  113 

sians  have  the  range  and  are  pumping  shells  in, 
two  or  three  a  minute.  It  looks  as  if  nothing 
could  live  there,  but  I  know  that  probably  not  a 
man  is  injured,  for  I  was  there  yesterday  and 
saw  how  safe  the  dugouts  are.  Villiers  looks 
up  from  his  sketching  and  watches  the  firing 
through  his  glasses.  A  ten-incher  plunges  into 
the  hillside  and  the  earth  boils  up  as  if  the  foun- 
dations were  ripped  away. 

"  I  hope  dear  old  Ricalton  is  out  of  that,"  he 
exclaims. 

*'  Don't  fear  for  him.  He  has  gone  through 
too  much  to  be  rapped  by  that,"  I  reply.  I  re- 
member how  he  walked  there  yesterday,  his  eye 
always  on  a  dodgehole.  A  ten-incher  came  just 
as  this  one  to-day.  He  threw  himself  flat  on 
his  stomach,  hugging  his  machine,  tenderly  as 
though  it  were  a  baby,  in  a  ditch  by  the  roadside. 
Ten  yards  off  the  shell  exploded.  The  pieces 
flew  over  and  clods  of  earth  fell  on  him. 
Hardly  had  the  pieces  stopped  before  he  was  up 
and  after  them,  for  he  is  as  great  a  curio  hunter 
as  he  is  a  photographer,  and  he  has  a  house  in 
Maplewood,  New  Jersey,  converted  into  a 
museum,  which  the  natural  history  experts  de- 


114  PORT    ARTHUR 

clare  is  the  finest  private  collection  in  America. 
But  enough  of  Ricalton. 

Along  a  deeply  rutted  road  in  front  of  our  vil- 
lage we  gaze  in  awe  at  the  big  guns  and  their  ac- 
couterment  spread  beside  a  narrow-gauge  track, 
A  pile  of  empty  shells  with  points  like  needles 
and  thick  as  a  telephone  pole,  so  heavy  two  men 
can  hardly  lift  one,  lies  scattered  down  the  slopes. 
A  recoil  vamp  lumbers  a  truck.  An  ungainly 
steel  thing  nestles  belly  deep  in  the  sand  while 
a  company  of  human  ants  sweats  and  wrestles 
with  it.  Then  suddenly  we  come  upon  the 
beautiful  breech,  delicate  as  clockwork,  daz- 
zling as  a  jeweler's  case,  gleaming  in  the  sun, 
and  Ricalton  exclaims: 

"The  only  thing  that  gives  one  respect  for 
man — his  achievement — is  to  look  at  such  a  piece 
of  mechanism.  It  has  the  power  of  a  jungle  of 
elephants,  yet  is  as  sensitive  as  a  little  girl!" 

Some  days  we  take  trips  off  to  the  various 
divisions  and  get  close  in  for  a  big  battle,  feel 
the  pitch  and  pallor  of  war,  see  heights 
assaulted,  won  and  lost,  hear  the  adventure  of 
conflict  from  heroic  mouths  and  get  in  close 
upon  the  red  anathema.     Then  we  visit  the  hos- 


CAMP  115 

pitals  and  know  the  slow  agony  of  it — the  suffer- 
ing, endurance,  silent  sacrifice.  Two  weeks  ago 
I  saw  the  same  operation  that  was  performed  on 
President  McKinley — laparotomy.  A  soldier's 
stomach  was  pierced,  as  McKinley's  was.  The 
surgeons  took  it  out,  sewed  it  up  and  replaced  it. 
To-day  I  was  told  the  man  would  recover.  He 
is  a  strong,  hardy  chap,  a  peasant  boy,  who  lives 
on  rice,  fish  and  tea,  which  was  not  McKinley's 
diet.  The  soldier  at  the  same  time  lost  his  right 
arm  by  amputation.  Visiting  him  again  yester- 
day I  asked  how  he  was  getting  on. 

"Well  enough,"  he  replied.  "The  hard 
thing  is  not  to  think  about  it.  You're  all  right 
if  you  only  don't  think.  It's  the  mind  that  rips 
one  up,  sir,  the  doctor  says." 

Our  village  shelters  most  of  the  impedimenta 
that  an  army  headquarters  must  carry.  Band- 
musicians  are  our  neighbors.  The  interpreters, 
next  door,  swap  tea,  cigarettes  and  news  with  us. 
The  Russian  interpreter,  who  lived  in  Moscow 
three  years,  sketches  so  well,  Villiers  says  he  will 
take  him  to  Paris  and  make  him  the  fashion. 
Behind  us  are  the  Japanese  correspondents,  so 
clandestine  in  their  ways  that  even  a  Manchur- 


ii6  PORT   ARTHUR 

ian  farmer  must  know  they  are  yellow  journal 
reporters.  Of  a  morning  we  see  a  curious  pair 
strolling  off  over  the  hills,  one  with  a  fowling- 
piece,  looking  for  snipe,  the  other  with  a  camera 
watching  for  a  chance  to  get  a  shell  as  it  ex- 
plodes. One  is  Mr.  Arriga,  the  expert  on  inter- 
national law,  who  will  adjudicate  all  property 
rights  as  soon  as  Port  Arthur  falls;  the  other  is 
the  official  photographer. 

Then  there  are  the  war  correspondents,  who 
have  a  camp  three  miles  off.  In  bargaining  for 
junks  to  take  the  news  out,  two  of  the  cable  men 
have  become  so  bitter  in  rivalry  that  they  go 
around  with  Mauser  pistols,  each  threatening 
to  shoot  the  other  if  he  tells  how  the  censor  was 
evaded.  There  is  the  Norwegian  nobleman  with 
the  eyes  of  a  viking  who  is  writing  serials  for 
one  of  Harmsworth's  London  dailies.  Finally, 
there  is  what  Villiers  calls  "The  Bartlett  pair" 
— A.  Bascom  Bartlett,  Esq.,  son  of  the  Hon. 
E.  Bascom  Bartlett,  M.  P.,  who  came  out  to 
see  the  fun  and  what  Villiers  calls  the  Tossup, 
because  it  was  a  toss-up  whether  or  not  he 
should  come,  and  who  is  here  to  make  fun.  It 
was  he,  who  recently,  after  hearing  a  general 


CAMP  117 

tell  of  the  desperate  charge  of  a  brigade,  patted 
the  officer  on  the  back  and  said:  "A  very  noble 
act,  sir.     I  shall  relate  that  in  Tossup  Hall." 

The  elder  Tossup  is  a  country  brewer  in 
Yorkshire.  The  younger  insists  that  he  is  an 
officer  and  a  gentleman  and  knows  how  to  con- 
duct himself.  But  a  few  days  ago  he  was 
caught,  while  visiting  an  outpost  with  an  officer, 
in  a  crossfire,  and  ducked  into  a  trench.  The 
officer  tried  to  reassure  him  by  following  into  the 
trench.  There,  while  a  battle  was  raging  be- 
yond, and  in  the  presence  of  all  the  sublime  pan- 
orama that  surrounds  us  here  the  Tossup  said: 
"  I  hope  you  will  come  and  visit  me  in  England. 
We  will  go  to  the  autumn  maneuvers." 

The  officer,  not  expert  with  English,  pulled 
out  his  dictionary  and  ran  his  thumb  down 
the  "ma's."  "man — man — manur"  he  read. 
"Ah,"  he  cried  at  last,  "the  autumn  manuring! 
I  see,  sir,  yours  is  an  agricultural  country." 


Chapter  Six 

203-METER   HILL 

^■f^^HAT  Blaine's  unfortunate  "three 
W^  I  ^  R's "  were  to  his  Presidential  cam- 
\M^r  paign  "203-Meter  Hill"  was  to  the 
siege  of  Port  Arthur.  Risen  to  the 
dignity  of  key  to  the  situation,  it  had,  in  an  ord- 
nance sense,  little  to  do  with  the  case.  It  was 
but  one  of  seven  advance  posts  for  final  assault. 
A  pimple  of  progress  to  the  engineer,  it  was  not 
permanently  fortified,  did  not  belong  to  the 
primary  scheme  of  defense,  and  was  dominated 
by  three  of  the  finest  forts — Etzeshan,  Anzushan, 
and  Liaotishan:  mountains  of  the  Chair,  the 
Table,  and  the  Lion's  Mane.  For  three  reasons 
heavy  guns  could  not  be  mounted  there.  First, 
the  cost  in  energy  and  life  would  be  too  vast,  be- 
cause rifles  whose  barrels  alone  weigh  from  two 
to  eight  tons  each  would  have  to  be  hauled  by 
hand  up  680  feet  of  rock,  a  task  heroic  even  in 
peace.  In  war,  wedged  among  three  magnifi- 
cently intrenched  hostile  positions,  this  would 

118 


203-METER   HILL  119 

be  impossible.  Second,  even  if  these  heavy 
guns — only  of  any  value  against  forts  or  fleets — 
had  been  gotten  there,  they  would  have  been 
pounded  to  pieces  within  an  hour  of  arrival  by 
the  more  numerous  and  better  empiaced  artil- 
lery of  the  Chair,  the  Table,  and  the  Lion's 
Mane.  Finally,  heavy  guns  are  never  em- 
placed  on  mountain  peaks  in  an  offensive  cam- 
paign. 

"  203  "  had  one  value — a  great  one.  It  was 
the  best  point  of  observation  the  Japanese  had 
yet  had.  Line  of  vision,  not  line  of  fire,  was 
what  they  needed.  From  "  203 "  they  could 
look  into  all  portions  of  the  harbor  that  could 
float  a  warship,  but,  what  was  more  essential, 
they  could  look  around  the  promontory  of 
Golden  Hill  into  the  cove,  where  the  hunted 
remnant  of  the  Russian  fleet  had  been  hiding,  at 
loose  anchor,  since  the  disastrous  attempt  to  es- 
cape on  August  loth.  They  had  no  need  for  bet- 
ter artillery  posts  than  the  positions  which  they 
had  held  for  four  months  and  from  which 
they  had  been  able  to  place  shells  in  any  spot  on 
the  Russian  side. 

"Any  spot,"  that  is,  if  they  knew  where  the 


I20  PORT   ARTHUR 

spot  was.  To  locate  the  spot  had  been  the  diffi- 
culty. "  203  "  gave  the  line  of  vision,  but  it  was 
so  wedged  in  among  commanding  batteries  that 
its  value  depended  upon  an  instrument  new  to 
warfare — the  hyposcope.  This  is  merely  a  tel- 
escope cut  in  half — the  front  half  elevated  above 
the  other,  like  the  head  of  an  ostrich  above  the 
body,  and  the  two  connected  by  a  further  length 
of  scope.  In  the  joints  thus  formed  mirrors  are 
placed.  Thus  a  view  of  the  interior  of  Port 
Arthur  was  brought  over  the  topmost  trench  of 
"  203  "  to  the  eyes  and  brain  of  the  Japanese  look- 
out, protected  there  by  the  rocks.  Through  the 
hyposcope  a  lookout  could  observe  the  effect  of 
every  shot  from  his  own  batteries,  located  not  on 
"  203 "  or  anywhere  near  "  203,"  but  distant, 
most  of  them,  two  or  three  miles.  While  he 
operated  the  hyposcope  with  his  left  hand,  with 
his  right  he  held  to  his  ear  the  receiver  of  a  tele- 
phone connected  directly  with  each  of  these  fir- 
ing batteries.  These  batteries  were  emplaced, 
not  on  mountain  peaks,  not  on  the  front  of  the 
mountain  range  from  which  their  operations 
were  being  directed,  but  entirely  behind  this 
range,  which  was  parallel  to  the  coast  range, 


Copyright,  /i;i)J,  h   Colli,  r' i  II  rrklj 

THE  HYPOSCOPE 

Showing  Lieutenant  Od.i  looking^  from  203-Mettrr  Hill  ilimu-ii  the 

liyixjscopi;  ;it  the  Russian  Hcct  in  tiio  New 

Harixir  of  Port  Aitliut 


203-METER    HILL  121 

forming  the  permanent  line  of  Russian  defense. 
From  these  points,  scattered  in  the  rear  of  the 
Japanese  position,  distant  from  the  Russians,  the 
nearest  half  a  mile,  the  farthest  three  miles,  the 
work  of  the  bombardment  went  on.  The  firing 
was  what  the  military  man  calls  "  high  angle  " 
or  "plunging"  ;  that  is,  the  shell  traveled  in 
the  line  of  a  parabola  over  two  mountain  ranges, 
which  separated  the  Japanese  batteries  from  the 
Russian  ships.  The  gunners  never  had  a  sight  of 
what  they  were  firing  at,  the  officers  in  command 
of  the  batteries  never  had  a  sight  of  what  they 
were  firing  at.  Only  the  lookout  on  "  203 " 
knew  where  the  shells  went,  and  he  got  his 
knowledge  through  a  mirror.  This  knowledge 
was  used  by  the  artillery  officer,  who  found  the 
range  by  means  of  a  quadrant.  The  hyposcope, 
the  telephone,  the  quadrant — these  were  the 
scientific  ganglia  that  wiped  the  mountains  from 
the  map  of  the  Liaotung  Peninsula,  and  brought 
the  operations,  in  the  mind's  eye,  to  the  level  of 
a  billiard  table.  "  203  "  was  the  cushion  needed 
for  successful  caroming.  It  would  be  useless 
to  lug  heavy  guns  up  there;  the  hyposcope  was 
carried  up,  but  not  artillery. 


122  PORT   ARTHUR 

Dispatches  have  said  that  the  capture  of  "203" 
gave  the  besiegers  command  of  the  town.  Such 
dispatches  concerning  other  captured  positions 
were  published  repeatedly.  Their  effect  was  to 
keep  the  world  continuously  expecting  the  fall  of 
Port  Arthur.  Let  it  once  be  comprehended  that 
none  of  the  positions  captured  up  to  December 
15th  was  permanent,  that  none  was  a  part  of  the 
grand  scheme  of  defense  perfected  by  the  Rus- 
sians through  the  past  seven  years ;  that  there  still 
remained  seventeen  primary  and  twenty-five 
secondary  positions  on  the  land  side  in  addition 
to  the  finest  forts  which  are  on  the  sea  side,  and  it 
will  be  apparent  that  this  expectation  was  not, 
until  General  Stoessel  decided  that  further 
resistance  was  useless,  justified  by  the  actual  con- 
ditions. 

Commanding  the  town  meant  little.  The 
Japanese  navy  put  shells  into  the  town  on  the  8th 
of  February,  and  had  been  able  to  put  them  in 
ever  since;  the  army  put  them  in  on  the  nth  of 
August,  and  had  been  qualified  for  destruction 
ever  since.  They  wanted  to  save  the  town. 
They  looked  upon  it  as  their  property.  Why 
smash  up  what  they  would  have  to   rebuild? 


203.METER    HILL  123 

The  fleet  had  been  their  chief  objective. 
Though  inert  for  four  months,  it  was  a  menace 
until  sunk;  that  out  of  the  way,  they  need  not 
worry.  Of  course  their  shells  had  searched 
about  for  arsenals  and  storehouses;  if  the  town 
got  in  the  way  of  the  search — well,  so  much  the 
worse  for  the  town,  but  the  Japanese  effort  had 
been  to  save  their  own.  It  was  not  Port  Arthur, 
but  Stoessel  and  his  forts,  that  Nogi  was  after, 
just  as  it  was  not  Richmond,  but  Lee  and  his 
army,  that  Grant  was  after. 

As  for  the  strategic  position,  no  one  can  say 
that  any  one  fort  at  Port  Arthur  is  the  key. 
Nature  assisted  expert  engineers  in  devising 
those  forts.  All  are  so  arranged  that  each  is 
commanded  by  two  or  three,  and,  in  some  cases, 
by  a  dozen  others;  thus  when  one  was  taken  it 
drew  Russian  fire  from  its  fellows  until  it  became 
untenable.  Such  was  the  situation  at  "  203- 
Meter  Hill."  The  Japanese  had  driven  the 
Russians  out,  but  they  were  unable  to  mount 
guns  of  large  caliber  there,  or  do  aught  but 
locate  a  farther  station  from  which  to  direct  final 
assaults.  Ten  years  ago,  when  the  Japanese 
took  Port  Arthur  from  the  Chinese  in  a  day,  one 


124  PORT   ARTHUR 

fort,  Etzeshan,  taken,  the  others  fell.  That  was 
the  key.  To-day  no  single  fort  is  so  important. 
"  203  "  is  dominated  by  the  Table  fort,  the  Table 
fort  by  the  Chair  fort,  the  Chair  fort  by  Golden 
Hill,  and  Golden  Hill  by  the  Lion's  Mane. 
And  after  all  this  was  taken,  there  would  still 
remain  the  east  forts.  Yet,  the  capture  of  "  203  " 
was  decisive.  On  September  19th,  the  Japanese 
lost  two  thousand  men  in  trying  to  take  it.  The 
attempt  failed.  The  division  with  the  job  in 
hand  sat  down,  waited,  and  worked.  Two 
months  and  a  half  of  sapping,  and  one  day  of 
assault,  on  December  4th,  turned  the  trick. 
Though  it  did  not  mean  the  fall  of  Port  Arthur, 
it  meant  the  beginning  of  the  end.  This  for  the 
reason  that  every  contraction  in  the  Russian  line 
meant  a  gain  in  Japanese  strength.  The  smaller 
the  circumference  the  less  the  capacity  for  resist- 
ance. And,  after  all,  the  physical  fact  of  the 
fall  was  simply  a  question  of  mathematics.  The 
loss  of  life  appalls,  the  spectacle  attracts,  the 
glory  inthralls,  but  the  intellect,  backed  by  what- 
ever impulse  it  is  that  gives  man  resolution  for 
the  supreme  sacrifice,  commands.  A  chess- 
board and  two  master  minds — such  was  Port 


203-METER    HILL  125 

Arthur,  Nogi,  and  Stoessel.  The  checking 
move  was  made  as  long  ago  as  May  26th,  when 
the  battle  of  Nanshan  was  fought.  The  fate  of 
Port  Arthur  w^as  sealed  then  just  as  it  was  sealed 
again  when  "  203  "  was  taken. 

Let  us  look  at  that  September  assault  on 
"  203,"  of  which  the  one  in  December  was  but  a 
repetition,  and  glimpse  what  it  meant  to  storm 
Port  Arthur.  Could  all  the  bloody  story  of  the 
siege  be  told,  "  203  "  would  be  forgotten,  a  detail 
lost  in  vista,  swamped  in  gigantic  operations, 
veiled  in  the  mist  of  vast  sacrifices.  Yet  the 
mind,  puny  as  it  is,  must  grasp  an  incident  and 
cling  tight,  as  a  poet  to  the  fringe  of  metaphor, 
for  comprehension  even  distant. 

Passing  from  the  rear  of  the  army  to  the  front, 
you  might  realize  something  of  the  tricky  skill 
used  to  move  those  pawns  over  that  vast  chess- 
board. To  the  eye  of  an  eagle  all  would  have 
been  invisible.  The  sum  of  his  sight  would 
have  been  a  tongue  of  land  making  faces  at  the 
sea,  ridged  with  deep  blotches  from  whose 
recesses  thin  pricks  of  smoke  slipped  to  the  crack 
and  roar  of  great  guns. 

Yet  lively  work  was  seen.     Close  to  the  right 


126  PORT    ARTHUR 

rear  was  the  first  battery,  a  six-gun  emplacement 
of  field  four  point  sevens.  At  one  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  the  telephone  rang,  the  lieutenant  in 
command  called,  and  instantly  the  redoubt 
swarmed  with  figures  that  sprang  like  ants  from 
the  earth.  Busy  as  ants,  they  answered  the  order 
from  brigade  headquarters  for  the  signal  shot  to 
open  the  grand  bombardment.  They  had  come 
from  their  bomb-proofs,  into  which  they  w^ould 
dodge  again  as  soon  as  the  shot  was  fired. 
There  was  much  pride  in  the  chief  gunner  as  he 
took  a  cartridge  from  its  bomb-proof  shell  chest, 
ran  to  his  gun,  threw  open  the  cordite  chamber, 
pulled  out  the  breech  block,rammed  in  the  shell, 
snapped  the  block,  and  stepped  back  to  signal 
the  lanyard  man;  more  pride  than  is  usual  in  the 
Japanese  gunner,  a  timid,  simple  being,  dexter- 
ously handling  his  delicate  instrument  with  as 
little  vanity  as  he  would  handle  a  potato  hoe. 

Hurrying  on  the  road  to  escape  the  shock,  and 
looking  back,  the  battery  was  invisible.  The 
bewilderment  of  the  eagle,  if  told  that  danger 
lurked  there,  would  be  overwhelming.  A  shell 
spat  out,  revealing  the  battery  behind  a  mass  of 
earth  forming  a  natural  redoubt.     This  was  in 


203-METER    HILL  127 

a  narrow  valley  with  only  a  small  range  of  foot- 
hills between  it  and  the  sea,  a  place  later  called 
"  The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death."  Behind 
every  mountain  shoulder,  and  up  every  gorge, 
firing  high  angle  over  the  eminence  in  front, 
was  a  battery  nestled  in  its  redoubt,  with  bomb- 
proofs  for  the  men  and  bomb-proofs  for  the 
ammunition.  It  was  hardly  a  valley,  but  a 
ravine,  barren  of  grass,  a  torrential  place  through 
which,  in  spring,  huge  rains  tore.  Soon  other 
rain — red  rain,  powdery  and  leaden — was  to 
pour  there. 

Directly  in  front,  out  of  the  west,  loomed 
"  203,"  flanked  by  its  gigantic  brothers,  granite- 
tossed,  the  Chair  and  the  Table  and  the  Lion's 
Mane.  Bone  of  the  world's  vertebrae,  Russia 
had  capped  them  with  science  and  determina- 
tion. Their  cordoned  batteries,  cunning  and 
intricate,  spoke  not  a  word  in  reply  to  the  Jap- 
anese taunts  hurled  in  upon  them,  savage  and 
vain.  Why  reply?  They  knew  their  strength. 
Before  "  203  "  lay  a  height  down  on  the  map,  like 
the  disputed  key  itself,  under  figures  to  denote 
in  meters  its  reach  skyward;  "  176"  they  call  it, 
lacking  more  intimate  speech,  but  the  soldiers 


128  PORT    ARTHUR 

quickly  dubbed  the  hill  "  Namicoyama,"  for 
they  saw  its  resemblance  to  a  flying  fish  abundant 
in  these  waters,  called  by  us  the  trepang,  by  Jap- 
anese the  namico.  The  mongers  of  Kamikura, 
after  disemboweling,  inflate  this  fish  for  hanging 
lamps.  There  it  lay — the  namico — its  slopes 
spread  finwise,  its  two  peaks,  furze-capped,  ris- 
ing above  the  mists  of  the  valley  as  incandescents 
struggle  through  the  fog  of  the  night.  Ringed 
with  barbed  wire  was  each  peak  and  close  about 
the  top  were  lines  of  loopholed  rock.  As  the 
following  step  of  a  stair,  "  203  "  rose  beyond, 
fortified  likewise.  From  the  nearer  peak  the 
tardy  glint  of  the  sun  caught  the  brass  muzzles 
of  two  cannon.  From  the  farther,  down  the 
slope,  ran  a  trench  continued  to  the  sea. 

The  battle  was  on.  Before  the  Russian  out- 
look knew  it  the  Japanese  advance  was  at  the 
base  of  Namicoyama.  Each  man  was  stripped 
to  his  khaki  uniform,  his  cartridge  belt  and  his 
rifle.  Four  hundred  rounds  of  ammunition 
were  in  the  four  leather  boxes  at  his  belt,  and  in 
his  hip  pocket  was  a  ration,  dubbed  with  a  soldier 
laugh,  "  iron  " — three  hard  biscuits  with  a  piece 
of  salt  fish  the  size  of  his  palm. 


203-METER    HILL  129 

Up  they  went  cautiously,  a  squad  of  twenty 
at  a  time,  slinking  along  the  ravines,  their  rifle- 
butts  dragging  the  ground;  one  file  of  twenty, 
then  another  and  another,  until  the  slopes  were 
dotted  with  figures  colored  like  the  earth — silent, 
nimble,  tiny. 

Now  the  artillery  was  at  it  heavily.  'Begin- 
ning with  the  battery  we  had  seen  go  into  action, 
the  pieces  spoke  up,  one  by  one,  until  near  a 
hundred  guns  were  spitting  fire  from  the  nooks 
behind;  astonishing  to  an  eagle,  but  the  Russians 
seemed  not  to  mind.  The  shots  increased,  the 
din  augmented.  A  shell  appeals  to  the  imagina- 
tion— snarls  like  a  wild  beast,  flings  fierce  shrieks 
into  unwilling  ears,  rends  tooth  and  claw  at  fear. 
The  place  might  have  been  a  nest  of  demons  with 
the  old  devil  hen  hatching  them  out.  The  Jap- 
anese kept  those  two  ridges  so  hot  with  shrapnel 
that  not  a  man  dared  show  himself.  For  twenty 
yards  below  the  parapet  the  slope  bubbled  as 
does  a  pot  boiling  above  the  kettle's  brim.  Not 
a  sound  from  the  nearer  Russians.  From  Anzu- 
shan,  from  Etzeshan,  from  "  203,"  and  even  from 
far-off  Liaotishan  the  replies  spoke  distant  and 
absurd,  but  Namicoyama,  slated  for  assault,  was 


130  PORT   ARTHUR 

silent,  silent  as  though  no  brass  cannon  were 
mounted  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  as  though  no 
twenty  companies  of  sharpshooters  were  lying 
low  with  Maxims  and  repeating  rifles  waiting  to 
receive  the  final  charge.  Were  there  cowardly 
Japanese  it  was  a  secret  shared  by  no  man  with 
his  neighbor.  Sound  to  the  core  or  not,  they 
went  on  with  the  precision  of  a  clock.  As  the  in- 
fantry advanced,  occasionally  a  huddled  figure, 
inert,  was  grouped  here  and  there  with  others 
who  moaned  piteously.  At  times  a  squad,  sink- 
ing, would  lose  itself  in  a  hollow,  only  to  climb 
presently  up  the  opposite  slope,  there  to  sink  on 
one  knee,  rifles  at  fixed  bayonets,  while  the  lieu- 
tenant in  command  reconnoitered  to  right  or  left, 
searching  for  the  line  of  best  deploy.  Then  on, 
skurrying  another  few  rods,  to  another  halt,  un- 
til they  came  to  the  precipitous  rocks  up  which 
it  seemed  a  goat  would  have  skinned  his  shins  in 
climbing.  Here,  hugging  the  mountain  proper, 
having  lost  but  few,  considering  the  advance 
made,  they  waited  for  night. 

Meanwhile,  aloft,  hell  reigned.  Shells  con- 
stantly bursting  apparently  shattered  guns  and 
killed  gunners,  but  when  the  dust  cleared  all  was 


203-METER    HILL  131 

instantly  life  again,  the  gnomish  figures  busy — 
busy  as  ants  with  eggs.  For  a  minute  thus,  then 
all  would  drop  back  into  the  earth  simultane- 
ously with  the  reply,  and  at  the  very  moment  that 
another  Russian  shell  was  in  upon  them. 

Was  it  the  same  beyond  in  Namicoyama  and 
in  "  203  "  ?  Doubtless  the  Russians  were  as  safe, 
though  with  them  the  shells  must  have  been  mul- 
tiplied by  twenties,  because  the  space  of  a  few 
rods,  lying  exposed  to  every  range,  received  the 
constant  fire  of  every  Japanese  gun.  The  Rus- 
sians had  a  wider  target,  a  range  of  hills  from 
which  occasionally  they  could  see  smoke  curl- 
ing upward.  It  was  far  more  difficult  to  hit  than 
the  Japanese  target,  for  nothing  was  plain,  all 
was  guesswork.  The  Russians  could  not  see  a 
thing  they  wxre  aiming  at.  A  range  of  hills, 
seared  with  autumn,  bare  of  husbandmen,  inno- 
cent of  apparent  defense,  alive  with  hissing 
venom,  confronted  them.  They  lashed  it  des- 
perately as  they  could,  frantically  as  a  boy  beset 
with  nightmare.  The  little  men  had  a  plain 
target,  parapets  outlined  against  the  sky,  trenches 
clear  and  distinct.  Yet  the  Japanese  were  often 
covered  with  dust  from  bursts  on  the  slope  be- 


132  PORT    ARTHUR 

yond,  and  through  die  Valley  of  the  Shadow  the 
diabolic  screeches  mounted  with  the  dying  of 
day.  Night  came  with  the  wild  clamor  on  in 
full  fury,  the  little  brown  squads  still  at  the  base 
of  Namicoyama,  the  reserves  creeping  around 
toward  "  203." 

Could  they  climb  it — that  six  hundred  feet  of 
almost  perpendicular  rock,  where,  in  daytime, 
with  sticks  and  hobnailed  boots,  the  best  of  moun- 
tain climbers  would  have  found  an  adventure? 
And  they  must  go  up  dragging  rifles,  shrapnel 
dropping  among  them,  shells  bursting  overhead, 
bullets  mowing  them  down,  not  to  rest  at  the  top, 
but,  once  there,  to  plunge  against  troops  well 
rested,  superbly  intrenched. 

The  reserves  threw  up  shelter  tents  and  staked 
down  the  flaps  with  heavy  rocks,  but  the  wind, 
howling  across  from  the  inlet,  flung  them  to  the 
laugh  of  the  rising  equinoctial.  Some  sought 
rest  on  bean  straw,  under  blankets,  the  Septem- 
ber moon  streaming  in,  but  there  was  no  rest. 

A  flash  in  the  eyes  and  the  mountain  is  thrown 
into  a  silhouette  of  fire,  then  plunged  into  black- 
ness. From  the  extreme  Russian  left  the  search- 
lights are  wheeling  into  position,  one  by  one, 


203-METER    HILL  133 

until  the  whole  seven  are  out,  playing  day  over 
the  battlefield,  throwing  suspicious  investiga- 
tion into  the  little  squads  of  brown.  Science  has 
intensified  war.  Formerly  men  could  get  their 
fill  of  fighting  by  day,  but  now  they  needs  must 
flare  the  candle  at  both  ends.  Like  Joshua,  these 
generals  are  deciding  their  empires'  fates  under 
light  of  their  own  ordering. 

The  second  searchlight  comes  out  of  the  right. 
In  between,  the  others  dance,  now  a  minuet,  now 
a  tarantella.  Then  a  red  line  streaks  the  air, 
parabola-like,  and  its  end  breaks  into  molten 
balls,  illumining  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death  as  by  candelabra  of  stars.  Its  path  is 
crossed  by  another.  Still  a  third  leaps  into  life 
till  the  night  is  frightful  with  fireworks.  Pro- 
cessions peaceful  and  gay  have  danced  through 
the  cities  to  such  salvoes  fostered  by  Pain.  You 
have  seen  them  on  Coney  Island,  you  have 
watched  for  them  on  Manhattan  Beach,  you 
have  romped  through  merry  summer  nights 
canopied  by  their  dazzle;  you  have  seen  them 
split  into  golden  bursts  and  rain  diamonds  of 
child  joy;  but  do  not  wish  to  see  them  bred  by 
the   Russians,   grisly   and   deadly,   laying  bare 


134  PORT    ARTHUR 

every  joint  of  action  and  throwing  into  ghastly 
relief  every  hope  of  surprise. 

A  growl  among  the  mountains  rolls  into 
power,  and  a  naval  shell  from  our  left  has  burst 
in  "  203."  The  forts  respond,  the  mountains  re- 
ply. The  small  arms  open  up,  the  machine 
guns  rattle,  the  pompoms  clatter  in.  Pitch, 
fuzz,  dingle  and  pop  are  drowned.  Crash, 
roar,  hurtle  and  boom  are  out.  The  devil  is 
loose. 

A  clatter  on  the  stones  below  comes  nearer, 
steadily,  rhythmically.  Listen!  The  tread  of 
soldiers  marching!  Soon  an  indistinct  line 
wavers  into  sight.  A  low  whistle  and  it  turns 
square  across  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  toward 
that  terrible  din.  Another  whistle  and  it  twists 
up  from  single  to  double  file.  Each  man  has 
his  full  kit  on  his  back,  an  extra  pair  of  hobnailed 
boots,  the  pick,  the  shovel,  the  rifle.  The  steel 
is  hooded  with  brass  caps,  a  challenge  to  the 
dew.  Officers'  swords,  sheathed  in  dull  cloth, 
defy  the  glitter  of  sunlight  and  of  searchlight.  It 
is  the  reserve  regiment  advancing  to  reinforce  at 
dawn.  Company  by  company  it  passes,  and  at 
the  end  marches  the  gray-haired  colonel,  stum- 


203-METER   HILL  135 

bling  in  the  dark,  peering  off  at  the  search- 
lights, blinking  at  their  bravado.  The  troops 
enfile  into  the  farther  ravine  and  deploy  by  bat- 
talions. The  din  lessens  not.  So  another  grist 
is  fed  into  the  mill  of  war. 

The  reserves'  echo  dies  to  the  incoming  of 
crunches  on  the  stones  as  of  a  wagon  lumber- 
ing— a  heavy  wagon.  Then  out  of  the  mists 
a  caisson  rolls  behind  six  horses,  the  mounts 
walking,  calmly,  slowly.  Another  caisson  and 
another,  then  the  guns — one,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six  in  all — while  overhead  whistles  the  shot 
and  beyond  gleams  the  searchlight.  The  rear 
battery  is  going  forward,  past  the  front  battery, 
almost  to  the  base  of  Namicoyama,  where,  at  a 
sixty-degree  angle,  it  can  reinforce  the  infantry 
as  the  sun  comes  up. 

Sleep  is  fitful  when  blaze  is  flirting  with 
blackness  and  sentries  with  death.  Long  before 
light  the  trench  guards  on  the  front  ridge  are 
waiting  for  the  big  guns  to  salute  the  morn. 
The  fire  has  slackened.  There  is  fair  quiet. 
When  one  has  heard  the  wild  gabble  of  a  thou- 
sand guns  he  is  blase  before  the  chatter  of  a 
dozen.     Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  a  shell 


136  PORT    ARTHUR 

sometimes  wings  a  nasty  way  and  the  search- 
lights hold  vigil,  but  the  infantry  sleeps. 

Then  a  little  light  fades  the  immense  shadows, 
and  soon  over  the  rim  of  the  world  peers  a  new 
day.  Peace,  beauty,  tingling  health — this  for 
another  moment — when  off  to  the  right  a  shell 
wheezes.  The  snap  is  touched.  The  army 
wakes.  Again  it  is  on — the  fearful  din,  the  un- 
endurable bombardment.  So  it  has  been  for  two 
months;  so  it  will  be  until  the  end.  Again  and 
again. 

But  what  is  that  under  the  crest  of  Namico- 
yama  where  it  rises,  furze  covered,  its  incandes- 
cent struggle  fighting  fog?  A  patch  of  brown, 
then  a  patch  of  blue,  then  a  flag — yes,  a  flag — a 
white  flag,  with  a  red  sun  in  the  center,  the  most 
legible  flag  in  the  Volapiik  of  bunting,  the 
Rising  Sun  of  Japan! 

In  the  night  they  have  done  it  because  they 
have  slipped  the  thongs  of  civilization  and  risen 
triumphant  to  the  hold  of  rice  paddie  and  sacred 
mountain.  What  they  did  was  simple — they 
changed  shoes;  rather,  they  threw  away  shoes. 
If  one  asks  how  the  Japanese  took  "  203  "  the 
answer  is  in  terms  of  feet. 


203-METER    HILL  137 

Such  heights  had  been  attacked  before  with 
scant  success.  Boots,  though  the  nails  be 
hobbed,  help  no  man  trained  as  the  chamois  to 
nature's  aid.  Yet  boots  were  all  they  had.  The 
government  in  flirting  with  the  ways  of  white 
men  recognized  nothing  but  leather  and  thread 
as  proper  footgear  for  Mikado  worshipers.  But 
that  was  before  "  203."  Here,  at  last,  the  sol- 
diers knew  more  than  the  officials  of  state.  They 
knew  enough  to  toss  aside  a  weapon  made  for 
pavement  fighting  when  they  went  agai*nst  preci- 
pice and  moss.  Reduced  to  essentials,  fighting 
for  life,  they  forgot  the  ambitious  new  ways. 
Instead  of  boots  they  tied  on  their  feet  waraji, 
the  Japanese  straw  sandal.  Having  none  of 
proper  make,  they  improvised  from  the  rough 
rice  sacking  brought  by  the  commissary.  Since 
then  the  government  has  been  compelled  to 
officially  supply  waraji. 

Barefooted,  but  for  the  tight  cling  of  the  straw, 
hid  from  the  searchlights  by  the  shadows  of 
Namicoyama  and  "  203,"  in  the  night  they  had 
climbed  the  heights  and  are  now  waiting  the 
introduction  of  Mr.  Bombshell  before  they  reel 
audaciously  across  the  parapet. 


138  PORT   ARTHUR 

The  brown  is  khaki-covered  men,  the  blue 
those  with  overcoats.  Far  down  at  the  lower 
left  is  a  gray-haired  figure  standing  apart — the 
colonel.  He  makes  no  effort  to  shield  himself. 
The  artillery  of  two  armies  have  concentrated 
their  fire  above  his  head.  That  is  their  business, 
no  concern  of  his,  so  he  hazily  observes  the  un- 
furling of  day  beyond  the  Tiger's  Tail  as  he 
would  dwell  upon  the  empurpling  of  a  convol- 
vulus. At  Nanshan  he  led  the  victorious  charge. 
Three  bullets  went  through  his  coat  and  two 
through  his  hat.  He  wears  Shinto  emblems  and 
believes  he  was  not  born  to  be  killed  in  battle. 
He  has  been  in  forty-seven  engagements  without 
a  wound.  His  name  is  Tereda,  and  he  commands 
the  first  regiment  of  the  first  division;  in  rank 
but  a  lieutenant-colonel,  his  colonel  slain 
May  26th. 

Shrapnel  begins  bursting  above.  The  Rus- 
sians are  far  from  sleep,  farther  from  death. 
It  being  high  time  for  business,  the  white  flag 
with  the  red  sun  in  the  center  waves  once  to  the 
left,  once  to  the  right,  and  twice  to  the  front.  It 
is  the  artillery  signal.  Again  the  ridge  falls 
under  the  terrific  fire  of  the  day  before.     But 


203-METER    HILL  139' 

this  time  the  infantry  is  150  yards  nearer,  and 
this  150  yards  is  in  a  direction  similar  to  that 
pursued  by  a  telephone  lineman  when  he  follows 
his  calling.  The  men  crouch  low,  their  own 
shells  bursting  less  than  fifty  yards  above  them. 

The  introduction  is  long.  The  Russians  are 
saucy  hosts.  They  parley  and  talk  back  with 
their  big  guns,  and  that  bluster  of  the  day  before 
is  repeated.  All  day  long  Tereda  and  his  men 
emulate  the  furze,  for  when  they  take  the  fort 
they  want  night  handy  to  help  them  intrench,  to 
give  them  a  bit  of  cover  despite  the  searchlights 
and  star  bombs.  Besides,  one  climb  of  that  sort  is 
enough  for  twenty-four  hours.  They  must  have 
the  cumulation  of  another  twenty-four  for 
the  final  charge.  Yet  it  is  costly  recuperation. 
Blood  spurts  frequently.  Wounded  wilt  under 
the  sun,  the  dead  lie  untouched. 

At  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon  Tereda 
orders  the  final  charge.  Three  cheers  go  up — 
Banzai!  Banzai!  Banzai!  With  bayonets  fixed 
the  squads  deploying  as  before,  the  khaki-cov- 
ered spots  begin  to  move.  In  advance  the  men 
crawl  hand  over  hand,  helped  by  blessed  waraji. 
Twenty  feet  from  the  parapet  they  pause  and 


140  PORT    ARTHUR 

fling  something  that  leaps  through  the  air  like 
balls  from  catcher  to  second  base.  These  hand 
grenades  of  gun-cotton  explode  on  and  in  the 
parapet,  introduction  more  intimate.  The  bril- 
liant bursts  play  off  the  fast  settling  evening  as 
the  khaki-covered  ones  go  in,  Tereda  pausing 
and  peering  with  his  glass.  The  entire  battalion 
tumbles  over  the  parapet.  Then  the  reserves 
begin  climbing  from  the  base. 

Silence.  All  is  over.  What  has  happened? 
Five,  ten  minutes  pass,  then  the  firing  recom- 
mences, but  now  the  object  is  changed;  all  the 
Japanese  shrapnel  is  playing  over  the  road 
leading  to  the  Chair  fort  and  all  the  Russian 
fire  is  directed  against  Namicoyama.  The  Rus- 
sians are  retreating,  throwing  their  rifles  as  they 
run.  Over  Namicoyama  floats  the  white  flag 
with  the  red  sun  in  the  center. 

Two  hours  later  a  fat  old  man  with  a  heavy 
beard  and  baggy  trousers  is  brought  in — a  pris- 
oner. An  officer,  originally  in  the  commissary, 
he  had  been  called  into  the  line,  business  being 
dull  in  his  department.  He  commanded  six 
companies  on  Namicoyama.  Wounded  in  the 
arm  and  sullen,  he  has  no  greeting  for  us. 


203-METER    HILL  141 

"The  pigs,"  he  cried;  "  I  stood  at  the  end  of 
the  trench  with  my  pistol  ready  to  shoot  every 
bolter,  but  it  was  no  use.  The  beasts!  Ah,  my 
poor  Russia." 

He  had  a  son  in  a  Siberian  regiment  shot 
four  days  previously  before  his  eyes.  For  a 
year  he  had  had  no  word  from  his  wife  and  two 
younger  children  in  the  Trans-Baikal,  but  he 
was  well  fed.  Bearded,  tanned,  deep-eyed,  he 
loomed  with  dignity  and  might  above  his  cap- 
tors.    There  was  no  consoling  him. 

"The  beasts,"  he  cried,  "papa  disowns  them. 
Why  didn't  I  use  the  pistol?" 

There  was  plenty  of  flour  and  small-arm  am- 
munition over  there,  he  said.  The  troops  were 
in  good  morale,  but  needed  bucking  up  by  the 
officers.     What  could  be  done  for  him? 

"  Nothing,"  he  replied.  "  My  boy  is  dead,  my 
wife,  my  children,  where  are  they?  And  Rus- 
sia, ah,  Russia,  where  is  she !  " 

To  him  Port  Arthur  had  fallen. 


Chapter  Seven 

A   SON    OF   THE    SOIL 

nEADQUARTERS  Third  Imperial 
Army,  Before  Port  Arthur,  Oct.  9th: 
Often  we  dine  with  the  Army's  lead- 
ers. To-day  all  the  temporary  occu- 
pants of  the  headquarters  village,  which  include 
the  human  impedimenta  of  an  army,  such  as  the 
expert  on  international  law,  the  official  photog- 
rapher and  the  correspondents,  were  called  to 
the  General's  house.     My  invitation  read: 

*'  Sir:  I  am  desired  by  General  Baron  Nogi 
to  write  to  you,  and  tell  you,  with  his  compli- 
ments, that  he  will  be  happy  if  you  will  favor 
him  with  your  company  at  tiffin  on  Sunday,  the 
9th  inst.,  at  one  o'clock.  He  wishes  to  become 
well  acquainted  with  you  by  having  chit-chats. 
I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir, 

"  Your  Obedient  Servant, 
"y.  YOSHIOKA,  Major  Aide-de-Camp: 

"  By  Order." 

142 


A    SON    OF   THE    SOIL  143 

We  went.  There  were  some  long  tables  pep- 
pered with  aluminum  ware,  fruit  and  wine  under 
the  pear  trees  of  a  Manchurian  back  yard.  We 
stood  up  to  the  cold  luncheon,  partly  foreign, 
partly  native,  charmingly  served  by  soldiers. 
There  was  a  crowd  of  dignitaries  distinguished 
by  uniforms.  They  were  of  all  ranks,  from  the 
three  stars  and  three  stripes  of  the  General  of 
the  forces  to  the  single  star  and  stripe  of  the  sub- 
lieutenant, who  is  commissary  adjutant.  But  it 
was  not  an  affair  of  dress,  so  out  of  the  crowd 
rose  two  personalities  who  burned  themselves 
into  my  consciousness,  where  they  hang  yet,  re- 
splendent in  energy.  There  was  about  them  a 
native  dignity,  a  primal  force,  that  indefinable 
something  that  distinguishes  great  men. 

One  wore  a  pair  of  yellow  boots  and  might 
have  stepped  from  an  American  fashion  plate. 
There  was  American  vitality  and  freshness  in 
him,  too.  He  dispensed  with  ceremony,  spoke 
keenly,  decisively,  almost  brusquely,  and  looked 
you  square  in  the  eye  with  a  twinkle  that  said  he 
appreciated  all  the  social  gayety  and  yet  kept 
back  his  own  opinion.  He  had  a  square  jaw, 
thick  neck,  broad  shoulders,  massive  palms  and 


144  PORT    ARTHUR 

a  head  long  from  chin  to  crown — all  unusual  for 
a  Japanese.  This  was  Major  Yamaoka,  the 
parliamentaire  who  recently  rode  into  Port 
Arthur  with  the  Emperor's  offer  of  safety  to 
noncombatants.  He  is  one  of  General  Nogi's 
most  trusted  aides,  a  popular  orator,  a  man  of 
decision.  He  walks  like  a  thoroughbred.  Had 
Caesar  seen  Major  Yamaoka  walk  across  that 
Manchurian  garden  he  would  surely  have  put 
him  on  his  staff. 

The  other  wore  a  pair  of  Pomeranian  top 
boots,  elegant  and  serviceable  as  Yamaoka's  were 
fresh  and  hardy.  They  were  pulled  snugly  over 
his  knees  to  keep  out  the  bitter  Manchurian 
wind.  Above  were  a  pair  of  white  kersey 
breeches,  spectacular  as  Napoleon's.  He  was 
fond  of  rising  on  the  toes  of  these  boots  and 
writhing  sinuously  in  them,  like  an  acrobat  test- 
ing, as  he  responded  to  a  toast  or  applauded  the 
music  and  fun.  Everything  about  him  indi- 
cated the  strong  man  of  action — the  tensity  of 
his  muscles,  the  flex  of  his  waist,  the  sure  set  of 
his  heels,  the  poise  of  his  head,  the  ease  and 
power  of  his  bearing,  his  well-knit  mouth,  his 
regular,  beautiful  teeth,  the  clarity  of  his  eyes. 


A    SON    OF   THE    SOIL  145 

the  sincerity  of  his  smile,  even  the  straight,  tough 
fiber  of  his  hair.  In  physique  the  opposite  of 
Yamaoka,  for  he  is  five  feet  nine  in  height,  ex- 
ceedingly tall  for  a  Japanese,  slender,  and  with 
delicate  hands,  the  two  yet  have  the  same  vivac- 
ity and  shrewdness,  the  same  kindliness  touched 
with  hauteur.  But  the  second  man  is  chief  of 
the  army,  not  only  in  rank,  for  it  was  General 
Nogi,  but  in  worth  as  well.  His  mastery  was 
easily  felt  to-day.  He  stands  at  the  pinnacle  of 
a  wonderful  career  and  the  world's  eyes  center 
on  him.  How  handsome  he  was — and  how 
simple  and  friendly,  how  easily  pleased,  how 
innately  courteous!  Is  he  not  also  that  ideal 
philosopher  whom  the  Roman  Emperor  Aure- 
lius  wrote  about  as  bethinking  him  always  of 
his  enemy's  comfort?  I  asked  him  how  he 
would  like  to  exchange  places  with  General 
Stoessel. 

"  I  think  often  of  General  Stoessel,"  he  re- 
plied. "To  be  frank  I  think  of  him  every  day. 
When  I  go  to  bed  at  night  and  when  I  get  up  in 
the  morning,  and  often  between  times  I  wonder 
about  him,  how  hard  his  position  must  be,  and 
how  well  he  defends  it,  and  if  he  is  really  in- 


146  PORT    ARTHUR 

jured  as  we  have  heard.  Sometimes  I  put  my- 
self in  his  place  and  imagine  what  I  should  do. 
Then  I  try  to  think  that  some  day  I  might 
be  in  just  his  position.  And  so  I  fight  the 
battles  all  over  again  from  his  side  and  from 
mine." 

"  Does  it  teach  you  much?" 

The  General  laughed  heartily.  "We  have 
learned  much  from  the  Russians.  I  am  always 
pointing  them  out  to  my  soldiers  as  model  fight- 
ers." He  took  from  the  ground  a  pick  whose 
handle  had  been  splintered  by  a  shell,  evidently 
found  on  the  battlefield.  Both  nose  and  heel 
had  been  worn  half  away,  rounded  with  dullness 
and  rust.  It  was  not  like  the  Japanese  picks, 
which  are  small  and  short-handled. 

"  I  assembled  all  the  battalion  commanders  a 
few  days  ago,"  he  continued,  "  and  showed  them 
this  pick  as  an  object  lesson.  It  has  turned  over 
many  a  hundred  weight  of  earth  and  shows  how 
expert  the  Russians  are  at  trench-making.  Our 
soldiers  do  not  like  to  dig  trenches.  Many  of 
them  are  of  gentle  blood  and  think  it  is  coolie 
work.  Besides,  they  say:  'We  are  going  for- 
w^ard  in  the  morning.     Why  dig  trenches  to- 


A    SON    OF   THE    SOIL  147 

night?'  The  Russians  have  taught  us  tactics, 
too." 

Here  Villiers  interrupted.  "  Men  who,  like 
the  Russians,  build  trenches  so  they  must  show 
themselves  on  the  skyline  to  shoot  can't  teach 
tactics,"  he  said.  The  talk  slid  on  to  the  bon- 
zais,  mutual  promises  to  dine  together  next  in 
Port  Arthur,  and  au  revoirs. 

But  I  started  to  write  of  the  Manchurian. 
He  knows  not,  neither  does  he  learn.  Yet  you 
can  scarcely  ask  who  let  down  that  shaggy  jaw 
and  who  sloped  that  head  away,  for  he  has  a 
magnificent,  strong,  clean  jaw  and  his  head  is 
handsome  and  high.  That  he  bathes  only  once 
a  year  and  cares  not  who  owns  the  land  so  long 
as  he  tills  it;  and  that  his  wife  and  daughter  sit 
on  the  stone  fence  of  his  donkey  stable  picking 
the  lice  from  one  another's  heads,  doubtless  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  question  propounded  by 
our  sociological  poet. 

Nor  is  the  Manchurian  uncivilized.  He  has, 
indeed,  reached  quite  a  state  of  development,  for 
he  is  the  abject  slave  of  fashion — at  least  his  wife 
and  daughter  are.  They  bandage  their  feet  un- 
til where   a  No.   8  boot  should  go  they  wear 


148  PORT    ARTHUR 

baby  6's.  This,  I  dare  say,  is  a  less  harmful 
fashion  than  that  other  silly  one  of  corsets,  for 
surely  the  organs  beneath  a  shoe  lace  are  not  so 
vital  as  those  under  a  waistband,  but  it  looks 
sillier.  To  see  women  in  the  harvest  fields,  by 
the  roadside  washing  clothing,  cleaning  the 
donkey  stable,  baking  bread,  spanking  boys, 
suckling  babies,  attending  husbands,  all  the  time 
balancing  themselves  as  a  premiere  danseuse  on 
her  toes,  is  to  think  of  stake  and  rack!  They 
say  that  this  is  not  real  Manchuria,  that  up 
North,  where  the  other  army  is,  the  women  do 
not  bind  their  feet.  The  present  Dowager 
Empress  of  China,  considered  by  many  the  most 
remarkable  living  woman,  is  a  native  of  north- 
ern Manchuria.  In  all  this  vast  country  the 
women  are  noted  for  modesty  and  virtue.  Ten 
years  ago,  during  the  China-Japan  War,  many 
committed  suicide  to  escape  expected  ravish- 
ment. But  it  was  well  learned  then  that  the 
Japanese  never  outrage  a  woman.  An  incident 
of  such  atrocity  by  Japanese,  in  either  war,  has 
yet  to  be  recorded.  It  is  said  that  the  Russians 
are  different,  though  it  is  difficult  to  see  how 
any  Westerner  could  look  with  more  than  curi- 


OKIMIANS 

Driven  from    liomo  liy  sliclls  wliicli   killed  tlair  tafiuT  aiul  motln-T, 
these  brothers  tramped  from  camii  to  iani|i  selliiii);  ejjgs. 


A    SON    OF   THE    SOIL  149 

osity  on  a  Manchu  woman.  Certain  it  is  that 
they  go  about  their  lives  here  in  complete  free- 
dom and  security.  Not  only  do  the  Japanese 
respect  women;  they  respect  property  also. 
Here  is  a  fertile  country  with  rich  crops  sus- 
taining a  vast  army,  yet  no  farmer  has  lost  a 
bushel  of  grain,  except  when  the  chance  of  bat- 
tle has  substituted  shot  for  scythe. 

A  son  of  the  soil  is  the  Manchurian,  but  not  a 
friend  of  nature,  with  whom  he  wars  valiantly 
for  his  daily  bread.  He  fights  terrible  suns  in 
summer  and  ghastly  winds  in  winter.  When  the 
winds  and  snows  drive  out  the  jflies  that  eat  him 
up,  the  lice  come  in  until  the  sun  and  flies  can 
have  another  turn.  So  can  you  blame  him  for 
being  a  money  grabber?  He  thinks  only  of  this 
season's  maize  crop  and  of  next  spring's  plowing. 
Whether  the  Russians  or  the  Japanese  or  the 
Chinese  rule  the  land  is  much  the  same  to  him. 
He  will  put  his  tax  into  the  Governor's  coffer 
and  go  on  with  his  toil.  Why  should  he  bother? 
He  remembers  that  Confucius  was  born  on  the 
Liaotung  and  that  Confucius  taught  to  resist  no 
violence  and  remember  the  fathers.  Conse- 
quently he  fills  the  country  with  tombstones  and 


ISO  PORT    ARTHUR 

babes  while  other  men  fill  it  with  war  and  name- 
less graves.  Over  in  the  valley  is  a  granite 
monolith  erected  in  the  memory  of  one  who  hon- 
ored his  father  and  mother.  A  Russian  shell 
has  struck  it  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach  and  Jap- 
anese bullets  have  shattered  its  back. 

Patriotism?  No.  But  he  has  his  religion 
and  it  is  this:  to  remember  the  fathers  and  owe 
no  man. 

Recently  the  master  of  our  house  went  out 
with  us  for  a  day  to  carry  supplies.  A  stray 
shell  passed  over  us,  perhaps  twenty  feet  above. 
We  all  ducked,  but  as  soon  as  the  coolie  recov- 
ered he  ran.  We  called  him,  for  we  were  with- 
out other  help.  He  kept  running.  We  sent  a 
soldier.  The  coolie  came  back  grudgingly. 
Finally  we  gave  him  a  yen.  But  he  shook  the 
yen  impudently  in  our  faces,  and  fell  back  simu- 
lating death,  crying  out:  "Coolie  dead,  yen  no 
good." 

He  should  be  used  to  danger  now.  His 
neighbors  are.  The  shells  and  bullets  are  to 
them  what  blowsnakes  and  mosquitoes  are  to 
an  American  country  district.  To-day  I  saw 
children  playing  among  corn  stubble  while  three 


A   SON   OF   THE    SOIL         151 

shells  burst  within  a  hundred  yards.  The 
children  did  not  look  up.  For  three  months  the 
Russians  were  in  the  land;  now  for  three  months 
the  Japanese  have  been  in  the  land.  For  three 
months  the  Manchurian  nonchalantly  carried 
Russian  wounded  into  Port  Arthur  and  buried 
Russian  dead  by  the  roadside  for  fifty  kopeks  a 
day.  For  three  months  he  has  nonchalantly 
carried  Japanese  wounded  into  Dalny  and  bur- 
ied Japanese  dead  in  the  fields  for  fifty  sen  a 
day.  What  concern  is  it  of  his  which  survivor 
he  gives  up  sen  and  kopek  to  afterwards? 


Chapter  Eight 

THE    BLOODY   ANGLE 

'ENERAL  NOGI'S  Headquarters  Be- 
fore Port  Arthur,  Oct.  22d:  To-day 
we  went  to  the  Eternal  Dragon,  and 
looked  in  on  the  bloody  angle. 
D'Adda  was  with  me — the  Marquis  Lorenzo 
D'Adda  of  Rome,  naval  expert,  military  engi- 
neer, designer  of  the  Niishin  and  Kasuga,  which, 
even  now,  on  clear  days,  our  spyglasses  can  dis- 
cern held  in  leash,  ten  miles  off,  by  Togo. 

Yesterday,  from  the  Phoenix,  D'Adda  looked 
on  the  fortress — its  two  mountain  ranges,  its 
Stone  wall,  its  chain  of  twenty  forts,  its  concrete 
glaces,  its  barbed  wire  morass,  its  artillery  preg- 
nant with  repose,  its  infantry  hideous  with  secret 
might — and  said: 

"  Eemposseebl!  Eet  ees  eemposseebl — abso- 
lutelee.  Zee  Japonaise  can  nevaire  take.  Eet 
ees  stronger  zan  Sevastopol — stronger  zan  Gib- 
raltar— absolutelee." 

152 


THE    BLOODY    ANGLE         153 

To-day,  from  the  foot  of  the  Dragon,  he 
looked  down  into  a  plain  lost  to  the  husband- 
man who  bears  on  his  arm  no  red  cross,  yet 
furrowed  far  deeper  with  vast  and  terrible  fur- 
rows, its  creased  and  aching  joints  curled  into 
the  glaring  sun.  Up,  he  looked  under  the  muz- 
zles of  Russian  cannon,  useless  now  that  the 
plain  they  were  wont  to  fill  with  dead  is  lost  to 
them. 

"  Extraordinaire — colossal ! "  he  cried.  "  Port 
Art — eet  will  be  one  smoke  puff  zee  nex  attac." 

We  had  left  the  siege  parallels  and  were 
climbing  into  the  fort,  our  backs  bent  low  so 
that  no  Russian  sharpsliooter  might  give  his  gov- 
ernment cause  to  decorate  the  forgotten  names 
of  two  noncombatants.  We  had  wormed  our 
way,  zigzag,  a  mile  and  a  half  through  the  val- 
ley along  a  trench  that  a  division  might  foot 
with  equal  safety,  four  abreast.  Lives  precious, 
toil  enormous,  and  brains  cunning  and  quick  had 
hid  their  army  from  the  enemy  as  prairie  dogs 
hide  their  spring  litters.  A  clever  attache  with 
the  Boers  had  shown  how  they  who  learned  the 
tricks  from  the  Kafirs,  hid  vulnerable  turnings 
with    maize    stalks.     Another,    schooled    with 


154  PORT    ARTHUR 

D'Adda  in  the  arts  that  Julius  Caesar  taught 
the  legions  in  Gaul  and  which  have  not  been 
improved  on  to  this  day,  had  outlined  the  most 
economic  angles  of  advance,  had  shown  how  to 
take  advantage  of  every  gully,  how  to  hide  be- 
hind every  terrace  tuft,  how  to  cross  sodded 
planks  above  at  equal  distances  until  the  way 
resembled  the  weave  of  an  Indian  basket.  All 
of  this  that  we  had  passed  was  but  a  sixth  of  the 
work  of  one  division,  of  which  the  army  holds 
three.  And  it  has  been  done  in  less  than  two 
months. 

The  Marquis  continued  to  exclaim  that  since 
the  invention  of  gunpowder  there  has  been  no 
such  engineering.  "  I  know  zee  historee  well," 
he  said,  "veree  well.  I  know  Plevna,  Sevas- 
topol, Dantzig,  Paris,  Vicksburg,  Metz,  Lady- 
smith.  Zay  are  no-thing.  Port  Art — eet  ees 
zee  greatest.     Zee  world  cannot  comprehend." 

Halfway  back  we  had  passed  a  Chinese  vil- 
lage, shattered  by  shells,  blackened  by  smoke,  its 
tumbling  walls  utilized  for  the  trench.  Earthen 
wine  pots  had  been  filled  with  shale  and  placed 
on  the  sandbags  to  deceive  the  gunners  beyond. 
Two  days  before  there  was  rain  and  in  one  part 


THE    BLOODY    ANGLE         155 

the  trench  was  filled  with  muddy  water.  We 
had  to  pick  our  way  on  submerged  stones  and 
planks.  As  I  hurried  along,  looking  at  my  feet, 
I  noticed  that  the  water  grew  dull  red  as  though 
the  wine  pots  above  had  burst.  At  that  moment 
I  stumbled  and  caught  the  wall  for  steadiness. 
My  hand  struck  something  flabby.  I  drew  it 
back  in  horror  and  found  sticking  to  the  palm  a 
white  piece  of  flesh  dented  with  convolutions — 
a  bit  of  human  brain.  A  pace  away  he  lay,  his 
feet  toward  me.  A  stray  shell  had  blown  him 
ofif  from  brain  base  to  nose  bridge.  He  was 
still  warm  and  the  officer  called  back  shrilly  for 
a  soldier  to  come  with  pick  and  shovel.  Then 
we  took  notice  of  the  shells  bursting,  some  five 
miles  ofi,  some  a  thousand  yards  away.  This 
had  happened  within  the  hour. 

As  we  came  closer  to  the  Dragon  a  stretcher 
was  borne  down  by  two  red  cross  men.  A  bullet 
had  picked  a  private  through  a  peephole.  Just 
ahead  of  us  two  soldiers  were  walking,  one  with 
his  full  kit,  rifle  and  shovel  on  his  back,  the  other 
bareheaded  and  barebacked.  Both  wore  on 
their  sleeves  the  two  yellow  stripes  of  the  dis- 
tinguished soldier.     The  finger  of  the  one  who 


156  PORT    ARTHUR 

was  to  go  was  held  by  the  hand  of  the  one 
who  was  to  stay.  Neither  spoke.  They  walked 
silently  and  slowly  in  the  full  sunlight.  He  of 
the  full  kit  was  ordered  into  the  thirty-minute 
trench  to  take  the  place  of  the  one  who  had 
passed  out  on  the  stretcher.  He,  too,  is  almost 
sure  to  pass,  ere  long,  the  same  way.  As  the 
two  comrades  walked  toward  the  place  of  death 
I  saw  how  true  Dickens  is,  for  it  was  precisely 
thus — finger  in  palm — that  he  sent  Sydney  Car- 
ton and  the  seamstress  to  la  guillotine  in  "  The 
Tale  of  Two  Cities"  ;  the  one  who  was  to  go 
clasping  the  finger  of  the  one  who  was  to  stay, 
the  one  who  was  to  stay  looking  with  kind,  brave 
strength  calmly  into  the  face  of  the  one  who  was 
to  go. 

"  Ah !     Tragique ! "  cried  D'Adda. 

The  officer  said  we  might  one  at  a  time  go  into 
the  front  trench.  I  started.  It  was  a  short 
climb  over  shale  and  debris  of  sundered  shells 
and  of  a  sudden  I  hobbled  into  a  hollow  space, 
girt  with  bags  and  silent,  silent  as  is  the  place 
of  execution  the  morning  of  capital  punishment. 
It  was  the  redoubt,  thrust  into  the  air  like  the 
maw  of  a  dragon.     The  sun  beat  in  beautiful 


THE    BLOODY    ANGLE         157 

and  sure.  The  rocks,  with  deadly  glare,  spat 
up  their  challenge.  An  occasional  bullet  sang 
as  a  ripsaw  tears  through  a  pine  knot.  Then 
a  machine  gun  rattled  and  the  shale  beyond  pat- 
tered. I  was  carried  back  to  a  boiler  factory 
and  an  automatic  riveter.  Of  all  war  sounds 
that  of  the  machine  gun  is  least  poetic,  is  the 
most  deadly;  it  has  the  ring  of  business. 

Silence,  blankness,  death.  At  first  I  could  see 
no  life,  but  the  officer  spoke  a  low  word — here 
all  words  are  whispers  as  they  are  beside  the 
couches  of  those  about  to  leave  this  world — and 
four  spots  on  the  wall  that  had  seemed  monoto- 
nous and  brown  as  the  shale  moved.  Four 
simple,  peasant  faces  with  the  star  of  Nippon 
above  looked  at  me.  Then  one,  attracted  by 
something  beyond,  suddenly  kneeled,  seized  the 
rifle  beside  him,  leveled  it  through  a  chink  and 
pulled  the  trigger.  That  deadly  rip  sawed  its 
knot. 

Boldened  by  the  presence  of  soldiers  kneel- 
ing as  I  was,  I  began  to  look  around.  A  groan, 
first  aspirate,  then  low,  as  of  an  asthmatic 
man  snoring,  brought  my  eyes  across  the  bag- 
protected  dragon's  mouth  and  I  saw  two  figures 


158  PORT   ARTHUR 

kneeling  above  a  third.  Presently  the  two  lifted 
the  third  into  a  stretcher  and  filed  past  me  with 
it.  I  saw  a  face  blood-dabbed,  the  lips  pite- 
ously  moving.  A  bandage  across  the  eyes  saved 
me  the  worst.  The  officer  beckoned  for  me  to 
peek  through  the  farther  hole.  The  incident 
was  but  a  bit  of  the  day's  work  for  him.  I  fol- 
lowed and  saw  a  shattered  field  glass  under  the 
parapet.  It  told  the  story.  He  was — had  been 
— a  non-commissioned  officer  in  charge  of  the 
sentry  squad  and  was  looking  across  at  the  Rus- 
sians when  a  sharpshooter  spotted  the  glass.  I 
felt  that  I  was  hurt  more  than  he,  for  I  lay  awake 
thinking  of  it  much  of  that  night,  only  to  remem- 
ber that  the  surgeon-general  had  told  me  that  a 
man  shot  through  the  brain  is  instantly  uncon- 
scious, though  his  lips  move  and  he  moans  for 
minutes. 

"  Each  day — how  many?  "  I  asked  the  officer. 

"  Twenty." 

*'  And  how  many  days?  " 

**  Fifty-nine." 

"  How  many  to  take  the  fort?" 

"  Four  thousand  six  hundred  and  fifty-three." 

"With  each  night  a  battle  to  resist  a  sortie?" 


THE    BLOODY    ANGLE         159 

"Yes.  Each  night  a  sortie,  each  night  a 
battle." 

"Thus — by  night — how  many  to  hold  this 
awful  place?" 

"  Since  the  beginning?  Perhaps  a  regiment, 
perhaps  a  few  more." 

He  motioned  me  to  the  corner  hole — the  hole 
through  w^hich  a  minute  before  the  bullet  had 
sped  into  the  officer's  eye.  I  emulated  neither 
bullet  nor  officer,  but  at  a  respectful  two  feet 
glimpsed  a  ridge  ghastly  and  glimmering  in  the 
sun  like  any  other  ridge  in  this  hell  hole.  Quite 
near  enough  to  reach  in  a  short  dash — 200  yards, 
the  officer  said — a  row  of  sandbags  were  backed 
business-like  toward  me.  Between  us  were  five 
heaps  of  blue  clothes,  four  in  a  huddle  and  one 
a  bit  ofif — Russian  dead  killed  in  the  battle  of 
Hatchimakiyama  four  days  ago  in  the  zone 
where  nothing  lives.  Grass  withers  there. 
Vermin  alone  germinate. 

Behind  those  sandbags  and  behind  these  men 
crouch  and  have  crouched  every  minute  for  two 
months  hunting  game  the  most  lordly  and  the 
most  cunning,  the  most  deceitful  and  the  most 
contemptible,  the  boldest  and  the  fiercest,  the 


i6o  PORT    ARTHUR 

most  inspired  and  the  most  depraved  this  earth 
can  boast. 

The  Russians  on  three  sides  held  us  in  a  vise. 
The  bottom  of  the  crater  was  paved  with  empty 
cartridge  shells  and  bullets  flattened  on  the 
rocks.  Constantly  more  knots  were  being 
ripped  by  the  saw  above.  Except  for  that  rasp 
— a  rasp  that  bore  in  with  crescendic  violence  on 
the  nerves — the  silence  was  profound.  Life  was 
everywhere — intelligence  at  the  keenest  pitch, 
ingenuity  the  most  diabolical,  agility  the  most 
intense,  sacrifice  heroic,  daring,  sublime — but  not 
a  sound,  not  a  motion.  Everywhere  the  silence 
kept — the  unendurable  silence  of  the  Eternal 
Dragon.  Its  insatiable  maw  thrust  up  there  in 
the  ghastly  sunlight,  drenched  in  blood,  yet  cried 
for  more. 

Sick  with  the  thought  that  through  this 
bloody  angle,  bought  at  so  dear  a  cost,  held  at  so 
terrible  a  price,  there  must  yet  be  fought  the 
supreme  fight  that  will  eventually  reduce  the 
catidel  I  turned  to  go.  At  the  top  of  the  down- 
ward trench  I  paused,  kneeling,  where  three  sol- 
diers stood  with  rifles  waiting  to  relieve  the  sen- 
try on  duty.     Down  through  the  plain  swept 


THE    BLOODY   ANGLE         i6i 

the  ten-mile  front  of  the  two  armies — the  might 
of  Russia  and  the  might  of  Japan,  locked  in  a 
struggle  so  desperate  there  was  no  sound  but  the 
asthmatic  wheeze  of  the  ripsaw  buzzing  above. 
It  was  very  close  to  the  other  world — yet  the  re- 
sources of  two  empires  centered  there,  the  heart- 
throbs of  great  people,  raging  like  the  wind  in 
from  two  seas,  swept  it  all  into  a  typhoon  of  gore 
and  grief. 

I  felt  my  hand  clasped  by  a  palm  moist  and 
gentle  with  feeling,  friendly  with  comradeship. 
The  eyes  I  looked  into  were  not  those  of  a  beast 
of  prey.  They  were  quite  pleasant  eyes,  even 
lovable.  The  face  was  touched  with  soil.  I 
could  see  it  came  from  the  rice  paddies,  yet  it 
had  sympathy,  and  pity,  and  much  capacity  for 
happiness.  Was  there  not  also  capacity  for  suf- 
fering? The  low  word  came  and  he  went  off, 
food  for  powder.  Will  he  be  one  of  the  twenty? 
The  sun  was  quite  as  devilish  as  ever  in  the  Dra- 
gon's maw  as  he  stepped  into  it.  As  I  scrambled 
into  safety  I  saw  him  propped  against  the  wall, 
his  rifle  against  a  chink,  his  cheek  to  the  breech, 
"sniping."  It  was  a  salute  and  an  appeal  that 
he  pressed  into  my  hand,  a  reproach  and  a  chal- 


i62  PORT    ARTHUR 

lenge.  I  was  a  white  man,  he  a  yellow,  and  he 
was  killing  white.  What  difference  was  there 
between  us?  Could  I  not  also  have  found  friends 
two  hundred  yards  farther  on?  Still  the  rip- 
saw buzzed  the  knots.  Again  the  machine  gun 
rattled,  without  poetry,  business-like  and  deadly. 

"Tragiquel"  whispered  D'Adda,  as  he  came 
back  from  the  same  journey  and  sat  beside  me. 
"Zis  ees  zee  focal  point — most  eentense,  most 
sublime.  Perhaps  here  Port  Art  will  be  taken 
— and  by  surprise.  I  know  zee  historee.  I 
study  Plevna,  Sevastopol,  Metz,  Gibraltar, 
Vicksburg,  Ladysmith.  Always  by  surprise. 
Zee  physical  is  but  zee  one  aspect  of  zee  situa- 
tion. Zere  are  zee  three  aspect — zee  physical, 
zee  mental  and  zee  moral.  Zee  moral  aspect 
will  be — what  you  call  it?  zee  final  decidence. 
When  what  you  call  zee  psychologique  mo-ment 
come — in  zee  wind,  zee  rain,  zee  storm, 
zee  quick  rush — zen  zee  high  spirit  go  low — 
phwaat!  like  zat — zen  Port  Art  fall.  By  a  sur- 
prise. One  sergeant  he  take  Dalny,  one  private 
soldier  he  will  take  Port  Art." 

We  loiter  along  the  parallel  on  our  way  back, 
The  ripsaw  strikes  a  knot  above  our  heads  and 


THE    BLOODY    ANGLE  163 

we  shy  to  windward.  D'Adda  reminds  me  that 
once  when  Skobolefif,  greatest  of  all  Russian 
soldiers,  thus  ducked  in  giving  way  to  a  purely 
physical  reflex  action,  he  immediately  leaped 
to  the  parapet,  and  walked  along  in  full  view 
of  the  enemy,  until  two  members  of  his  staflf 
dragged  him  down  as  he  sputtered  out  his  dis- 
gust with  himself. 

We  stop,  winded.  Again  the  ripsaw.  Again 
the  shrink.  Then,  content  with  what  breath  we 
have,  fearful  we  may  have  no  more,  we  hurry 
on,  our  knees  sprung,  our  heads  drawn  in,  like 
turtles  slinking  through  the  mud.  We  have  no 
troops  to  encourage,  no  reputations  to  sustain. 
We  are  not  Skoboleflfs. 


Chapter  Nine 

A   BATTLE    IN   A   STORM 

nO-O-ZAN  (the  Phoenix  Mountain), 
Manchuria,  August  28th:— Ninety- 
six  hours  of  almost  incessant  fighting 
— from  sun  to  moon,  from  moon  to 
searchlight  and  from  searchlight  to  dawn — is 
more  than  human  endurance,  backed  though  it 
be  by  Japanese  pluck,  can  stand,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  do  last  night  but  rest.  Only  an  occa- 
sional sentry  pop  or  the  roll  off  to  the  right  of  a 
wheezy  cannon  whose  shot  traveled  on  wheels 
in  need  of  grease,  told  us  that  the  sublime  pan- 
orama of  mountains  and  valleys  lying  before  us 
hid  a  hundred  thousand  armed  and  warring 

men. 

Until  last  night  the  weather  has  been  all  sun 
and  moonlight,  with  dawns  and  sunsets  tinted 
persimmon  russet,  and  the  valleys  bright  twenty 
hours  out  of  the  twenty- four;  fighting  conditions 

ideal  for  the  defense,  whose  searchlights  and 

164 


A    BATTLE    IN    A    STORM      165 

star  bombs  made  the  other  four  hours  bright  and 
left  surprise  as  difficult  as  to  a  poker  student 
playing  with  his  back  to  a  mirror.  But  mirror 
or  no  mirror  the  Japanese  attacked.  Night  was 
day  to  them  and  daytime  hell,  as  they  hurled 
themselves  against  that  iron  chain  of  forts,  only 
to  break  as  the  waves  of  the  sea  climb  up  to  shat- 
ter upon  the  rocks.  The  rocks  disintegrate. 
Yes.     Yet  hard  on  the  waves — and  slow. 

Losses?  Officially  it  was  admitted  that  more 
than  twenty-five  thousand  were  done  for.  Not 
since  Grant  hurled  his  inefficient  brigades  on 
Cold  Harbor  has  there  been  such  a  slaughter 
against  a  fortress.  In  the  Ninth  division,  which 
lay  in  our  immediate  front  and  which  formed 
the  center  of  the  army,  two  regiments  were  en- 
tirely decimated  and  a  battalion  and  a  company 
of  artillery  put  out  of  action,  to  a  man.  For  a 
week  the  roads  at  the  bases  of  our  mountain 
dribbled  stretchers  loaded  with  masses  of  flesh, 
clothes  and  blood.  The  soldiers'  "  bandaging 
places"  overflowed,  and  the  living  were  so  busy 
helping  others  to  live,  and  still  others  to  die, 
there  was  no  time  to  bury  the  dead. 

And  all  for  nothing.      Not  a  single  perma- 


i66  PORT   ARTHUR 

nent  fort  had  been  taken,  not  a  prisoner,  not  a 
gun  from  the  enemy  was  in  our  hands.  The 
opposing  mountains,  responsive  with  explosives 
to  the  touch,  where  no  art  of  the  engineer  was 
lost,  held  before  us  as  always,  grim,  monstrous, 
calm  in  mighty  strength.  On  their  under- 
features,  between  the  opposing  outposts,  lay 
thousands  whom  no  first  aid  dared  reach,  and 
other  thousands  whom  no  burial  squad  came 
near.  The  men  of  words  argued  long  that 
week.  They  could  not  agree  whether  it  was  a 
reverse  or  a  repulse.  The  anti-Japanese  con- 
tended that  as  we  had  not  gained  one  point  the 
action  was  a  "  reverse."  The  lenient  were  cer- 
tain that  as  we  had  not  been  driven  back  no  one 
vain  of  military  technique  could  call  it  more 
than  a  "  repulse."  The  fifty  thousand  interested 
parents  in  Japan  knew  not  if  it  was  victory  or  de- 
feat; presently  they  are  to  find  that  it  is  death. 
"Reverse"  or  "repulse"  the  commander  cared 
not:  he  had  disobeyed  an  Imperial  order,  for 
the  instructions  were  to  enter  Port  Arthur  on 
the  2ist  of  August.  And  the  caterers  of  the 
treaty  ports,  what  cared  they  of  "  reverse "  or 
"repulse"?     The  banquets  had  been  ordered, 


A    BATTLE    IN   A    STORM      167 

the  five-dollar  tickets  sold,  the  day  fireworks 
stored  for  the  fall  of  the  eastern  Gibraltar  on 
this  pre-ordained  day.  And  now  the  eggs  were 
no  longer  strictly  fresh,  the  vegetables  were  stale, 
the  meats  off-color,  while  the  back  of  Port 
Arthur  was  still  game  and  careless  in  all  that 
brilliant  weather. 

With  us,  to  meet  an  officer  was  to  see  a  face 
drawn  and  grave.  Useless  to  utter  sympathy, 
superfluous  to  express  confidence.  They  had 
underestimated  a  great  foe,  miscalculated  his 
strength,  and  were  paying  the  price — a  fearful 
one — with  the  "two  o'clock  in  the  morning" 
courage  of  desperately  determined  men.  They 
did  not  waver  or  complain,  but  it  was  terrible  to 
see  them,  calm,  patient,  silent,  suffering,  still 
resolute  to  go  on,  meeting  each  salutation  with 
a  hollow  smile,  ghastly  with  ache. 

"What  fine  weather,"  we  say,  wanting  better 
speech. 

"For  him — yes.  Bad  for  us."  "Him"  is 
the  enemy,  on  whom  the  sun  shone  gayly  and  for 
whom  the  new  moon  was  a  few  hours  off. 

Clouds  came  with  last  evening.  Slowly  the 
houses  on  the  edge  of  the  old  town  disappeared 


i68  PORT   ARTHUR 

against  the  murky  hills.  Then  the  new  town 
went.  The  huge  cranes  that  marked  the  western 
harbor,  where  lay  the  hunted  warships,  evapo- 
rated, the  docks  faded  away,  the  stone  quarry 
was  lost.  At  length  the  tall  factory  chimney  on 
the  outskirts,  which  for  days  had  been  our  chief 
landmark,  went  out  in  the  haze.  That  was  the 
last  we  saw  of  the  complete  Port  Arthur,  whose 
beleaguered,  respected  front  had  mocked  us  for 
eight  desperate  days. 

The  moon  had  a  hard  time.  She  came  up 
with  a  huge  cigar  in  her  face — shocking  in  a 
lady  moon! — which  choked  her  till  she  spewed 
and  sputtered  and  went  out.  She  was  a  new 
moon  and  died  gamely,  filling  the  air  with  im- 
pudence and  bravado,  so  it  was  some  time  after 
midnight  before  the  rain  pattered  her  off  about 
her  business  with  that  silly  cigar  behind  the 
clouds,  and  filled  the  valley  with  mist.  Thus, 
the  rain  was  our  friend  and  we  welcomed  it, 
casting  happy  and  fragrant  remarks  into  the  ris- 
ing storm,  singing  the  mountain  to  sleep  with 
our  lullaby  of  content,  for  we  knew  that  "  his  " 
searchlights  could  do  little,  perhaps  nothing, 
against  our  soldier  boys,  already  sore  and  tired, 


A    BATTLE    IN   A    STORM      169 

but  valiant  down  there  in  the  huge  night. 
Foiled  in  the  light,  we  looked  for  them  to  do 
something  in  the  dark. 

But  even  before  that  we  knew  the  night  was 
big  with  promise,  for  eight  officers  climbed  up 
at  dusk  to  stay  the  night  with  us.  We  lay  at 
length  under  rubber  blankets  and  rough  oiled 
paper  used  in  Japan  for  cart  covers,  with  our 
noses  stuck  between  the  rocks,  scenting  for  ex- 
citement as  deer  are  fire-stalked  in  the  great 
woods. 

This  mountain,  the  Phoenix,  is  directly  in  the 
rear  center  of  Nogi's  army  and  about  a  mile 
from  his  advance  posts.  Thus,  with  little  dan- 
ger, we  command  as  grand  a  battlefield  as  the 
world  has  yet  produced.  From  here  we  have 
seen,  at  the  same  time,  exasperating  as  a  three- 
ring  circus,  two  infantry  assaults,  three  artillery 
duels,  and  a  naval  engagement.  The  human 
impetus  we  knew  not  until  last  night.  Until 
then  we  knew  only  the  sound  and  color  of  battle, 
and  its  wild  glory.  So  we  fell  asleep,  the  rain 
pattering. 

Past  midnight  and  only  stray  sentry  shots 
have  carried  out  that  promise  of  something  big. 


I70  PORT   ARTHUR 

With  difficulty  we  keep  awake,  yet  the  officers 
behind  lie  expectant  and  the  night  is  young. 
The  fresh  rain  dapples  delicious  coolness  and 
filters  mosquitoes — tiger  mosquitoes — more  ter- 
rible than  war.  I  hear  deep  breathing— then 
quiet — and  dreamland. 

Rain  pelting  in  my  face  wakes  me  to  greet  a 
flash  of  lightning.  I  tuck  in  the  rubber  blanket, 
reach  for  my  watch  and  by  the  next  flash  see  the 
hands  at  seven  minutes  past  three.  I  snuggle 
myself  into  a  ball  and  crunch  the  rocks  closer. 
Another  flash  behind  and  I  spasmodically  close 
my  eyes,  but  open  them  in  time  to  see  the  moun- 
tain side  and  road  below  livid.  Two  horses 
are  lying  in  the  road,  killed,  I  suppose,  by  the 
flash.  But,  no,  I  remember  that  a  shell  laid 
them  out  yesterday.     Ricalton  cries: 

"  They've  begun." 

"No,"  I  yell,  "it's  the  storm,"  and  my  voice 
is  lost  in  the  thunder. 

Is  it  thunder?  Is  it  cannon?  Who  can  tell? 
The  vivid  flashes,  too  great  for  artillery,  light- 
ing up  the  whole  mountain,  come  in  now  on  all 
sides  and  as  fast  as  the  lanyards  of  a  battery  could 
be  pulled. 


A    BATTLE    IN    A    STORM      171 

The  horrid  grandeur  rises.  Prayerfully 
thankful  to  be  in  it  I  desperately  resolve  not  to 
run.  How  the  molten  sheets  drag  me  from 
that  hole  in  the  rocks!  Surely  every  glass  in 
Port  Arthur  is  leveled  here!  The  next  instant 
the  Russian  fire  will  concentrate  on  the  Phoenix. 
Yes.  There  it  is — a  flash  from  Golden  Mount, 
like  a  dynamic  spark  from  one  electrode  to 
another,  pointed  this  way,  lost  in  the  ink  of 
night. 

A  double  fear — the  fear  of  shame  and  the  fear 
of  death — consumes  me.  I  shiver.  But  I  grow 
brave,  for  I  am  not  alone.  Ricalton  leaps  to 
his  feet,  wrapped  in  the  trailing  cart  cover. 

"Sublime!"  he  cries,  waves  his  arms  aloft, 
laughs  at  the  storm. 

More  flashes  from  the  Russian  hills,  the  Jap- 
anese answer.  The  vast  night  is  hideously  alive. 
Artillery  flicks  as  fireflies  spark,  spits  tongues  of 
flame,  answering  thunder  with  thunder,  light- 
ning with  lightning.  The  rain  beats  down  a 
torrent. 

In  the  intermittent  flashes  the  ugly  eye  of  the 
searchlight  looks  in,  licks  phosphorus  about  us 
and  ambles  off  into  the  valleys,  as  a  cow  might 


172  PORT    ARTHUR 

run  the  fur  of  her  tongue  over  a  cocklebur  and 
calmly  go  to  grass.  No  taste  for  rocks  over 
there.  They  are  out  for  softer  game.  Six  more 
fling  their  deviltry  from  the  head  of  Cyclops  and 
down  in  the  valley  struggle  with  mist  and  rain. 

Then,  'mid  the  sky's  and  cannon's  belch,  as  a 
fairy  into  the  land  of  demons,  a  thin  red  line  is 
tossed  gracefully  over  the  valley  from  the  Rus- 
sian side.  It  reaches  high  over  the  mountains 
from  the  sea  forts  and  above  the  center  of  the 
great  plain  falls,  as  a  sailor  casts  a  halyard  over 
the  yardarm  on  to  the  deck  beyond.  In  mid- 
air bursts  the  feu  de  ]oie,  the  delight  of  fireworks, 
in  war  a  spy.  On  other  nights  this  deathly  star 
,  bomb  revealed  all  secret  movements,  but  now 
the  Japanese  have  allies  in  the  mist  and  rain. 
Neither  searchlight  nor  star  bomb  can  pene- 
trate the  storm  veil. 

Now  comes  the  crackle  of  infantry,  followed 
by  the  pop,  pop,  pop,  of  quick-firers,  the  clatter 
of  Hotchkiss  howitzers,  the  more  sprightly  click 
of  Maxims.  Another  assault — and  they  have 
had  eleven  in  a  week!  Will  they  win  this  time? 
They  are  going  for  the  Cock's  Comb,  whose 
crest  stands  out  ominously  against  the  sky. 


A    BATTLE    IN    A    STORM      173 

'Boom!  Bo-o-o-m!  Far  out  of  the  distance 
a  deep  voice. 

"The  navy.  That's  a  twelve-inch  gun. 
Togo's  with  us  to-night!"  Ricalton  ought  to 
know,  but  who  can  tell?  Is  it  a  Japanese  siege 
mortar,  a  Russian  coast  defender,  field  artillery, 
star  bomb,  machine  gun,  howitzer,  or  that  grand 
bombardment  from  the  heavens?  They  are  all 
in  action  to-night.  Is  it  defeat  or  victory?  Can 
they  take  the  fort? 

I  can  answer  none  of  these  questions.  I  only 
know  that  "  a  child  could  understand  the  De'il 
had  business  on  his  hand." 

As  the  crashes  increase,  the  wind  rising,  the 
furor  mounting,  I  throw  the  cart  cover  aside 
wrap  the  blanket  more  closely  about  me  and  run 
down  the  mountain.  Ricalton  calls,  but  I  hear 
him  not.  The  reality  of  this  din  must  be 
known.  Over  my  shoulder  as  I  run  the 
Phoenix  looms  up  monstrous,  haughty,  wise  and 
terrible,  silhouetted  as  she  was  born,  anon  in 
fire. 

At  the  foot  a  regiment  is  drawn  along  the 
road,  the  men  squatting  on  their  heels,  ponchos 
over   heads,    their    rifle    barrels,    brass-capped, 


174  PORT    ARTHUR 

peeping  from  the  corners.  I  make  for  the 
valley. 

Seeking  a  trench  where  I  have  been  before, 
between  the  lines  of  fire,  I  hurry  for  the  village 
of  Shuishiying,  the  location  two  days  before  of 
our  outposts.  No  living  thing  is  to  be  seen,  but 
overhead  the  big  bullets  crash  from  behind  and 
lumber  in  from  the  front.  Down  here  between 
the  two  lines  of  batteries  the  way  grows  long, 
the  village  distant,  the  desire  to  return  manifold. 
The  artillery  of  two  armies  centers  on  me;  not  a 
pleasant  sensation!  Not  on  me,  of  course,  but 
I  am  not  a  Christian  Scientist — nor  yet  a  vet- 
eran I  It  gets  on  my  nerves. .  I  turn  back.  Then 
through  the  dark  I  feel  a  file  of  soldiers  near 
and  go  on. 

Starting  at  every  sound,  in  the  purest  dark- 
ness, not  knowing  whether  we  or  the  enemy  oc- 
cupy the  village,  and  yet  so  far  by  this  time  I 
cannot  return,  I  enter  the  village.  A  dull 
light  around  the  first  corner  shows  me  the  head- 
quarters of  the  infantry  line  officers  command- 
ing the  reserves — a  place  I  had  been  two  days 
before.  I  go  up.  Only  a  sergeant  is  there 
answering  the  telephone. 


A    BATTLE    IN    A    STORM      175 

"My  friends?    Where?" 

He  waves  an  arm  toward  the  front.  I  tumble 
out  of  the  village  and  there  are  the  advanced 
reserves  drawn  up,  squatting  on  heels,  poncho- 
covered,  rifles  uncapped.  A  movement  is  be- 
ginning. I  fall  in  with  the  young  lieutenant  I 
know.  The  regiment  quickly  breaks  into  charg- 
ing formation — squads  of  twelve,  and  deploys 
single  file  into  the  mealie  fields  to  the  left.  I 
am  discovered,  ordered  to  the  rear.  I  protest. 
The  sentry  orders  arms,  bayonets  fixed.  I  go — 
back.     The  regiment  goes — ahead. 

But  why  be  foiled?  Why  come  halfway 
round  the  globe  to  be  turned  back  at  the  sum- 
mit? There  is  another  way — to  the  right.  I 
hurry  along  it  as  day  begins  to  break.  The 
mists  are  heavy,  the  rain  drizzling,  the  first  light 
struggling.  I  find  the  conical  hill  in  the  center 
of  the  plain,  quite  detached  from  the  fortress 
proper,  taken  by  our  troops  the  day  before  and 
called  the  Kuropatkin  battery.  I  struggle 
through  battered  abattis  and  entanglement  for 
the  elevation.  The  foss  is  filled  with  water — 
the  only  moat  before  Port  Arthur  that  has  the 
traditional  morass.     The  place  is  deserted  and 


176  PORT    ARTHUR 

if  I  can  reach  the  front  trench  the  whole  action 
will  lie  before  me  like  a  chessboard.  Across  the 
parapet  lies  a  line  sergeant,  his  head  gone. 
There  has  been  no  time  for  the  dead.  The  trail 
is  thick  with  khaki  bodies.  Picking  my  way 
slowly  forward,  halting  at  each  yard  to  be  sure 
that  I  am  not  in  range  of  the  musketry  whose 
wild  rattle  is  now  filling  the  air,  I  at  length  find 
myself  near  a  bombproof  partially  splintered  by 
shells.  The  plain  now  luminous,  I  pause  for 
rest  and  safety,  the  din  not  lessening. 

But  no  sooner  do  I  look  around  than  I  scram- 
ble quickly  on — into  danger.  Two  figures  are 
rigid  there  in  the  half-light  of  the  bombproof, 
one  in  khaki  uniform,  one  in  blue  blouse  and 
marengo  pants.  The  one  in  khaki  has  his  teeth  in 
the  throat  of  the  other,  whose  eyes,  popped  like 
peas  from  the  pod,  peer  over,  rakishly  curious,  at 
his  limp  hand  dropped  over  the  khaki  back  and 
holding  a  pistol.  The  khaki  hip  is  drenched 
with  blood,  partially  dried.  The  sun  is  come 
and  gone  and  is  now  here  again  since  that  hap- 
pened. The  faces  are  ghastly  with  bloat.  I 
leave  the  half-light  of  the  shelter  and  go  out 
where  bullets  are. 


A    BATTLE    IN    A   STORM       177 

The  star  bombs  cease,  the  searchlights  die 
away,  the  artillery  flags,  the  infantry  grows 
noisier.  Then  I  see  the  reserves  falling  back, 
the  squads  of  twelve  escaping  from  one  terrace 
to  another,  in  good  formation,  continually  firing, 
but  still  falling  back.  This  Kuropatkin  battery 
may  see  other  dramas  like  the  bombproof  duel. 
I  hasten  down.  In  the  village  I  find  the  lieu- 
tenant busy  with  trenches,  improvising  the  de- 
fense. He  throws  all  his  English  at  me  as  I 
come  up : 

"The  Russians — they  come — I  fix  them. 
They  are  very  wild.  Our  men  are  very  wild. 
Ah,  it  is  a  wild  war."  The  telephone  rings. 
He  runs  to  speak  with  the  general.  Then  the 
sergeant  informs  me. 

They  had  attempted  an  assault  in  the  rain  and 
dark.  Beginning  with  shrapnel  they  had  tried 
to  find  the  searchlights.  Charges  burst  above 
two  of  them  nearest  the  Cock's  Comb,  and  they 
expired,  as  if  hit.  The  guileless  infantry  then 
went  in,  supposing  the  way  clear.  Halfway 
up  the  glacis  every  searchlight,  including  the 
two  apparently  hit,  converged  on  them,  throw- 
ing them  out,  in  spite  of  the  rain,  clearly  against 


178  PORT   ARTHUR 

the  red  earth.  More.  They  carried  nippers 
able  to  cut  wire  theretofore  found  before  Rus- 
sian positions,  but  here  the  wire  was  as  thick  as 
the  little  finger,  not  cutable  with  their  weapons. 
Thus,  instead  of  a  lump  of  dough  to  be  bowled 
over  the  first  dark  night  the  advance  regiment 
had  found,  even  in  the  rain,  that  the  Cock's 
Comb  stood  out  intact  as  a  racing  yacht  stripped 
for  her  tryout. 

Yet  another  Russian  dodge,  for  a  battlefield 
is  as  full  of  intrigue  as  a  ballroom,  completed 
the  disaster.  Under  our  fire  of  the  afternoon 
which  preceded  the  rivalry  with  the  storm 
Stoessel  had  his  batteries  reply,  but  when  we 
opened  up  with  the  storm  he  ordered  his  guns 
to  cease,  one  by  one,  battery  by  battery.  Soon 
our  forces  thought  that  like  the  searchlights  the 
artillery  was  done  for.  So  when  the  advance, 
after  creeping  through  the  nipper-defying 
barbed  wire,  expecting  their  job  done,  was  about 
to  leap  with  a  "  Banzai"  over  the  parapet,  they 
were  met  by  light  and  fire.  Turning  to  look  for 
their  comrades  of  the  second  regiment  they 
found  these  deep  in  the  dunga,  attempting,  not 
to  come  on,  but  to  cut  their  way  back,  for  a  bat- 


A    BATTLE    IN    A    STORM      179 

tery  of  pompoms  and  a  regiment  of  sharp- 
shooters had  sortied,  almost  segregating  them 
from  the  command.  The  whole  brigade  was 
threatened  with  annihilation  and  at  this  moment 
the  reserves  I  had  joined  were  ordered  to  the 
relief. 

The  regiment  under  fire  of  the  machine  guns 
retreated  precipitately,  leaving  one-half  its 
number  on  the  slope.  Turmoil  again  through 
the  barbed  wire  and  plump  into  the  rear  of 
the  second  regiment,  also  retreating,  not  into  its 
own  lines,  but  into  the  Maxims  and  Norden- 
feldts.  Overwhelmed  on  all  sides,  tricked,  de- 
feated, two-thirds  of  the  men  killed  or  wounded, 
grimy  with  sweat  and  powder  and  almost  faint- 
ing in  the  muggy  August,  the  decimated  brigade, 
its  regiments  back  to  back,  fought  as  Custer 
fought  on  the  Little  Big  Horn,  with  a  coolness 
that  comes  to  men  in  the  supreme  hour. 

Most  of  them  died  as  Custer  died,  for  out  of 
that  brigade  of  6,000  men  there  are  to-day  unin- 
jured but  640.  These  were  saved  by  the  reserves 
from  Shuishiying,  my  lieutenant  and  his  com- 
rades, who,  as  dawn  came  in,  hammered  the  Rus- 
sian rear  and  drove  the  Siberians,  sullen  with 


i8o  PORT    ARTHUR 

the  joy  of  successful  trickery,  up  into  their 
trenches. 

Wandering  back  toward  Ho-o-zan,  the  fore- 
noon well  on,  the  rain  almost  finished,  I  won- 
dered was  it  "reverse"  or  "repulse"?  Com- 
ing to  a  place  where  the  rear  guard  had  been  at 
my  descent  of  the  mountain  before  dawn  I 
looked  for  them  in  vain.  Instead  of  the  greet- 
ing I  expected  from  the  side  of  the  road  the  dust 
about  me,  here  and  there,  was  flicked  up,  as  if 
stones  were  thrown  at  me. 

"Is  this  a  bit  of  soldier  fun?"  The  pelting 
kept  up.  One  of  the  stones  struck  a  few  inches 
from  my  toe,  when  I  heard  the  well-known  voice 
of  Ricalton  yelling  from  behind  a  shoulder  of 
rock: 

"  Here — out  of  that,  you  young  ass! " 

Then  I  saw  him  frantically  waving,  from  be- 
hind his  shelter.  But  why  should  he  look  for 
shelter  there?  The  artillery  fire  was  down. 
All  I  could  hear  was  a  counter-attack  of  infantry 
a  mile  and  a  half  in  my  rear.  But  as  soon  as  I 
got  near  him  he  ran  out  and  dragged  me  into 
the  ditch  at  his  side. 

"Where  are  the  soldiers?"  I  asked.     Then  I 


AMMUNITION   rOR    THK   FRONT 


A    BATTLE    IN    A    STORM      i8i 

saw  his  fun.     "You  were  tossing  things  at  me," 
I  cried. 

"Those!    Spent  bullets!    You !" 

At  this  moment  an  orderly  galloping  along 
fell  from  his  horse  several  hundred  yards  up  the 
road,  and  crawled  into  the  ditch  ahead  of  us. 
We  wormed  up  to  him  and  found  a  slug  had 
traveled  from  shoulder  to  trunk  under  his  ribs 
and  into  his  thigh. 

They  were  fighting  down  the  reverse  slope  of 
the  Eternal  Dragon,  an  outwork  of  the  Cock's 
Comb,  and  the  Russian  bullets,  aimed  at  the  foe 
above,  cut  a  parabola  in  the  air,  and  came  down 
with  their  initial  velocity  two  miles  ofif  across 
the  plain — where  we  stood.  The  Russians  on 
the  reverse,  the  Rising  Sun  must  be  above  the 
Eternal  Dragon. 

It  is  now  noon.  We  are  back  on  Ho-o-zan, 
looking  out  to  sea.  Twelve  warships  are  on  the 
horizon.  From  one,  the  nearest  in,  comes  an 
occasional  puff  of  white  smoke,  then  a  low,  long 
bo-o-om!  A  shell  drops  into  the  town.  The 
eye  follows. 

Now  we  see  how  the  brigade  is  avenged.  The 
houses  of  the  old  town  are  charred  and  broken. 


i82  PORT   ARTHUR 

The  new  town  is  gutted  and  smoldering.  A 
shell  has  carried  away  the  factory  chimney. 
One  leg  of  the  crane  is  demolished  and  the  other 
sags.  The  rain  has  put  out  the  flames  and  a 
dirty  brown  smoke  fills  the  gap  from  Golden 
Mount  to  Tiger's  Tail. 

iBetween  sun  and  sun  the  navy,  brother  of  the 
army,  has  laid  a  heavy  paw  upon  the  place.  Its 
claws  away,  the  deep  scratches  show  where  Port 
Arthur  bleeds. 


Chapter  Ten 

THE    CREMATION    OF   A   GENERAL 

EFORE  Port  Arthur,  Sept.  27th.— 
Major-General  Yamamoto  was  shot 
and  instantly  killed  two  days  ago.  The 
brigade  he  commanded — one  leading 
the  right  wing  of  the  Army — had  captured  the 
outworks  of  "203."  This  mountain  had  been  long 
in  dispute  and  was  dominated  by  certain  Russian 
forts,  which  made  it,  while  Japanese  territory, 
yet  untenable  by  our  forces.  Yamamoto's  bri- 
gade, however,  clung  under  the  reverse  ridges 
and  occupied  trenches  at  the  top,  keeping  the 
foothold  secure  until  artillery  could  be  ad- 
vanced to  reduce  the  opposing  positions.  In  this 
critical  situation  the  General  thought  it  best  to 
be  on  the  ground  in  person  and  advanced  his 
headquarters  to  the  base  of  the  mountain,  which 
exists  on  the  map  only  under  the  figure  "  176," 

denoting  its  height  in  meters,  but  which  his  sol- 

J83 


i84  PORT    ARTHUR 

diers  had  cherished  "  Namicoyama,"  because  of 
its  resemblance  to  the  trepang  or  namico,  a  long 
angular  fish  abundant  in  eastern  waters. 

The  night  of  the  move  Yamamoto  climbed  the 
mountain  and  crept  into  the  trenches  for  a  look 
at  the  contested  heights  opposite.  He  came  be- 
fore he  was  expected  and  his  engineers  had 
not  had  time  to  prepare  a  bombproof  shelter 
through  whose  chinks  he  could  look  in  safety. 
He  would  not  wait,  but  put  his  glasses  through 
a  rift  in  the  trenches  and  settled  into  a  comfort- 
able seat  to  study  the  situation.  There  was  no 
regular  firing,  but  only  the  desultory  popping 
that  is  heard  night  and  day  along  the  whole  ten- 
mile  front,  where  sharp-eyed  pickets  are  keen 
and  cautious.  The  General  became  bold,  raised 
his  head — whit — a  bullet  through  his  brain. 

Neither  officers  nor  men  can  be  said  to  be 
reckless,  or  even  incautious.  The  army  is  de- 
void of  that  extravagance  expected  of  war,  when 
each  man's  courage  seems  in  question  and  cow- 
ardice impels  bravado.  Evidently,  there  is  not 
a  coward  in  the  army,  for  the  bravery  of  each 
soldier  and  of  each  officer  seems  taken  for 
granted.     All  make  of  war  a  serious  business, 


CREMATION    OF   A    GENERAL    185 

in  which  lives  are  units  to  be  kept  for  the  Em- 
peror and  skillfully  used,  as  a  go-player  advances 
his  pawns,  saving  all  he  can  for  final  victory. 
The  labor  done  in  a  week  to  build  cover  would 
gather  all  the  harvests  of  Manchuria,  which 
just  now  are  mellow  ripe  and  gloriously  beauti- 
ful in  the  keen  sunlight.  Whole  mountains  are 
tunneled,  in  some  places  through  solid  rock;  in 
others  through  slanting  shale,  to  afford  covered 
ways.  At  each  divisional  headquarters,  of  which 
the  army  has  three,  the  lookout  has  two  bomb- 
proofs  dug  in  the  solid  rock  on  commanding 
heights,  buttressed  by  three  layers  of  sand  bags, 
covered  with  two  feet  of  earth,  all  supported  by 
poplar  poles,  with  the  loophole  for  lookout  cun- 
ningly slanted  so  the  sun  will  not  show  behind 
and  indicate  to  the  enemy — perhaps  only  500 
yards  away — the  precious  eyes  behind.  These 
bombproofs  sometimes  are  made  quite  comfort- 
able with  rugs  and  improvised  stools,  but  mostly 
knees  suffer  and  the  wretched  correspondent 
traveling  from  post  to  post  comes  to  complain 
not  of  "writer's  cramp,"  but  of  *' general's 
stoop."  A  month  ago  on  the  left  wing  of  the 
army  two  staff  officers  were  killed  in  a  bomb- 


i86  PORT   ARTHUR 

proof  by  a  bursting  shell.  The  army  was  scared, 
for  a  staff  officer  is  valuable  freight.  Since  then 
care  has  been  redoubled;  sand  bags  have  been 
laid  a  layer  deeper  on  all  lookouts,  ramparts 
have  been  heightened,  and  now  venerable, 
curious  heads  sink  lower  as  they  turn  up  for  a 
view. 

The  death  of  the  General,  Yamamoto,  was  an- 
other warning.  It  was  also  a  severe  blow.  He 
was  one  of  the  most  competent  men  in  the  army, 
commanded  a  star  brigade  and  was  slated  for 
early  advancement.  Last  night  his  memory  re- 
ceived a  most  distinguished  honor:  the  corpse 
was  cremated  on  the  battlefield  where  he  lost 
his  life. 

To  appreciate  how  great  the  honor  was  it 
will  be  necessary  to  explain  two  conditions: 
First,  wood  on  the  peninsula  here  is  worth  its 
weight  in  cash.  The  country  is  not  wooded  to 
begin  with,  which  is  the  cause  of  another  dif- 
ficulty the  army  has  to  face — scarcity  of  water. 
About  the  villages  there  are  usually  a  few  pop- 
lars, but  the  mountains  have  nothing  but  Scotch 
heather  and  the  plains  only  Ventura  County 
bean  pods  and  San  Joaquin  wheat  fields.    Then 


CREMATION    OF   A    GENERAL    187 

two  great  armies  have  boiled  water  and  savagely 
wrangled  here  for  three  months,  until  all  the 
rotten  timber  of  old  Manchurian  dwellings  has 
gone  for  firewood.  As  a  consequence  a  frequent 
sight  is  a  transport  cart  with  some  stubs  of 
spruce  tied  to  the  whiffletree,  being  carried 
from  Dalny,  twenty-two  miles  away.  Dried 
maize  stalks  are  the  universal  fuel.  Cracker 
boxes  sell  for  a  dollar  apiece  and  the  other  day 
I  found  my  servant  brushing  the  pencil  whit- 
tlings  from  the  floor  to  use  for  kindling.  Sec- 
ond, it  was  the  samurai's  belief  that  a  warrior 
who  sacrificed  his  life  in  combat  should  be  hon- 
ored by  cremation  on  the  spot  of  his  vicarious 
atonement.  And  the  difference  between  the 
army  of  to-day  and  a  samurai  clan  of  a  genera- 
tion ago  is  far  less  than  the  difiference  between 
cuirass  and  bombproof;  you  can't  wipe  out  the 
clinging  beliefs  of  generations  in  forty  years — 
not  in  the  Orient.  It  may  take  hyposcopes  and 
searchlights,  wireless  telegraphy  and  machine 
guns  to  win  victories,  but  only  funeral  pyres 
and  Shinto  sacrifices  will  pay  for  them. 

Wood-impoverished,  the  army  cannot  honor 
its  humble  dead;  i.  e.,  not  immediately;  wait 


i88  PORT   ARTHUR 

till  Port  Arthur  falls — but  of  that  later.  It  is 
different  with  generals.  As  a  daimyo  in  feudal 
times  received  the  forehair  of  all  his  clan  as  a 
final  offering,  so  to-day  a  general  gone  gets  the 
camp  fires  of  his  soldiers.  Last  night  the  brigade 
which  had  lost  its  intrepid  head  ate  its  rice 
dinner  cold  and  went  without  hot  water  for  its 
tea.  All  the  mess  fires  were  contributed  to  make 
a  pyre  worthy  the  deceased. 

Just  as  the  sun  went  down,  at  the  bottom  of 
Namicoyama,  whose  heights  war  had  swept  but 
a  day  before,  in  sight  and  sound  of  the  grim 
proofs  of  his  last  victory — emplaced  batteries  and 
occupied  field  hospitals — the  body  of  the  major- 
general  was  given  to  the  flames,  while  his  men  in 
the  trenches  above  sternly  held  the  Russians  at 
bay.  Occasional  cannon  rent  the  air,  infantry 
popping  cracked  in  the  stillness,  myriad  tent 
lights  twinkled  up  into  the  moonlight;  the  blaze 
shot  up,  waned,  crackled  and  died  down.  The 
midnight  shift  of  sentries  presented  silent  arms. 
A  donkey  brayed  out  of  the  valley.  Miles  to  the 
left  a  howitzer  boomed.  The  ocean  lay  black 
like  ink  beyond  a  fringe  of  shore  gray  under  the 
moon.     A  line  of  coolies  passed  with  bamboo 


CREMATION    OF   A    GENERAL    189 

stretchers  carrying  piteously  mangled  forms — 
the  day's  harvest  to  which  the  coolies  had  been 
called  from  their  maize  and  their  millet. 
Embers  gleamed  from  the  brigade's  mess  fire. 
Two  orderlies  stepped  up  with  a  wooden  box, 
kicked  the  embers  away,  and  placed  in  it  some 
ashes. 

A  week  hence  a  family  in  Tokyo — a  quiet, 
dry-eyed  Japanese  lady  with  two  half-grown 
boys — will  receive  the  wooden  box.  It  will  be 
borne  a  few  days  later  through  the  streets  of  the 
capital  on  a  gun  carriage  to  Aoyama  Cemetery. 
There,  after  two  white-robed  priests  have  said 
a  few  words  over  it,  a  long  shelf  in  a  narrow 
vault  will  receive  the  wooden  box.  The  widow 
will  have  notification  by  special  messenger  that 
his  August  Highness,  the  Emperor,  sees  fit  to 
remember  the  illustrious  deeds  of  the  departed 
by  conferring  upon  him — who  is  not  dead,  but 
who  has  passed  on  to  wait — the  order  of  the  Ris- 
ing Sun,  and,  in  the  absence  of  the  husband  the 
wife  will  be  permitted  to  receive  the  pension 
attached  thereto.  Japanese  history  will  record 
that  Major-General  Yamamoto,  after  a  valiant 
career  in  the  service  of  his  Emperor,  gave  up  his 


I90  PORT   ARTHUR 

life  at  the  Battle  of  Namicoyama,  in  Manchuria, 
Sept.  24th,  1904. 

Last  night  the  brigade  bivouacked  in  joyous 
envy.  Had  not  its  general  received  what  every 
soldier  longs  for — death  before  the  enemy;  had 
he  not  also  received  the  soldier's  apotheosis — 
cremation  on  the  scene  of  his  exaltation?  This 
is  as  near  religion  as  these  people  get.  But  the 
staff  and  the  new  major-general,  educated  in 
Europe  and  living  in  the  twentieth  century, 
when  they  climb  Namicoyama  to  spy  upon  Port 
Arthur  will  wait  until  the  engineers  have  safe- 
marked  the  heights  with  bombp roofs. 


Chapter  Eleven 

THE   GENERAL'S    PET 

BE  was  small,  like  all  his  race,  and  he 
looked  as  harmless  as  a  musician.  In 
fact,  his  eyes  had  the  dreaminess  of  a 
musician's,  and  the  clasp  of  his  hand 
was  like  that  of  a  woman.  He  touched  me 
on  the  arm  one  day  as  I  came  out  of  the  staflf 
tent  at  General  Nogi's  headquarters,  and  asked 
me  in  fairly  good  English  if  I  knew  San  Fran- 
cisco. Together,  with  a  crooked  stick,  we 
traced  out  a  map  of  the  city  on  the  sand  at  our 
feet.  He  knew  it  as  well  as  I  and  he  pointed 
to  his  former  home,  near  the  corner  of  Washing- 
ton and  Mason  streets.  Then  he  pulled  from 
his  breast  pocket  a  letter  sweat-stained  and 
travel-worn,  which,  read: 

"To  whomever  this  may  concern,  I  wish  to 

say  that  the  bearer,  George,  is  the  most  faithful 

servant  I  have  ever  had,  that  he  is  a  good  cook, 

191 


192  PORT    ARTHUR 

and  that  he  has  a  lovely  character.  I  will  con- 
sider it  a  favor  to  myself  if  his  next  employer 
treats  him  generously. 

**  Mrs.  H.  L.  Hevener, 

"1180  Mason  Street 

"  San  Francisco." 

His  real  name  wsls  Eijiro  Nurimiya.  He  had 
seen  me  the  day  before  at  the  General's  tiffin  and 
had  read  the  word,  "  San  Francisco,"  on  my  arm 
band,  but  had  not  ventured  to  speak  to  me  when 
in  the  General's  presence.  He  was  one  of 
Nogi's  bodyguard,  and  I  immediately  knew  he 
must  be  a  man  of  some  distinction,  for  through- 
out the  camp  it  was  well  understood  that  Nogi 
had  about  him  only  those  private  soldiers  who 
had  become  eminent  for  service  in  the  field. 
That  day  and  the  following  days  when  Nuri- 
miya came  to  my  bean  shed,  we  had  long  talks 
over  the  tea  and  cakes.  Thus  his  story  is  here 
set  down : 

He  left  the  Hevener  home  nearly  a  year  be- 
fore the  war  began  and  worked  in  a  watch- 
maker's shop  on  Jackson  Street  in  San  Francisco. 
Like  all  of  his  countrymen  he  had  ambition  and 


THE    GENERAL'S    PET         193 

desired  to  rise  above  die  kitchen.  But  he  was  a 
reserve  conscript,  subject,  as  such  reserves  are, 
to  the  call  of  the  Emperor  at  any  crisis  similar 
to  the  one  that  his  country  is  now  in.  So  he  re- 
sponded to  this  call  March  23d,  sailing  on  the 
Korea  from  San  Francisco  to  Kobe,  twenty 
miles  from  which  his  home  lay  in  the  Ugi  Prov- 
inces. 

His  father,  a  mender  of  broken  barrels, 
is  separated  from  his  mother,  who  keeps  a  tea 
house  in  Kioto.  There  is  one  sister  at  the  tea 
house  with  his  mother.  He  had  three  days  with 
his  parents,  the  first  time  he  had  seen  them  in  six 
years.  Then  he  sailed  for  Manchuria,  where 
he  joined  the  famous  Ninth  Regiment,  the 
Black  Watch  of  Japan,  a  part  of  the  Ninth 
Division  of  the  Third  Army  chosen  to  conduct 
the  operations  against  Port  Arthur.  This  same 
regiment  had  a  number  of  other  American  Jap- 
anese. 

The  campaign  had  progressed  two  months, 
when  Nurimiya  saw  his  first  great  battle.  It  was 
the  grand  assault  against  the  permanent  forts  of 
Port  Arthur,  lasting  through  seven  frightful 
August  days.    He  is  one  of  the  fifteen  survivors 


194  PORT   ARTHUR 

of  Company  C  of  this  Ninth  Regiment,  which 
marched  into  the  Seven  Days'  Battle  three  hun- 
dred and  fifty  strong. 

The  first  day  Nurimiya  went  with  his  com- 
rades against  the  north  battery  of  the  Cock's 
Comb  Fort,  which  was  finally  captured  on 
December  i8th.  Thus,  it  took  the  Japanese 
four  months  of  desperate  work  to  accomplish 
that  for  which  Nurimiya's  comrades  were  lost 
those  seven  days  in  August.  Most  of  the  regi- 
ment was  wiped  out  in  front  of  the  Cock's  Comb. 
What  was  left,  including  Nurimiya,  was 
ordered  to  reinforce  the  Seventh  Regiment, 
operating  to  the  right  against  the  fort  of  the 
Eternal  Dragon.  Against  the  Cock's  Comb 
Nurimiya  fought  in  the  front  line.  He  also 
had  the  same  good  fortune  in  the  fight  against 
the  Eternal  Dragon,  for  to  the  Japanese  such  an 
opportunity  is  considered  good  fortune.  More 
of  his  comrades  were  lost  here,  including  all  that 
came  from  America.  The  following  two  days 
he  lay  with  a  few  others  hugging  the  base  of  the 
fort  in  the  broiling  sun,  cut  off  from  provisions. 
About  this  I  asked  him: 

"  Were  you  thirsty?  " 


THE    GENERAL'S    PET         195 

He  replied:  "  By-m-by  very  much  want  to 
drink,  so  I  make  water — red  water." 

With  that  he  struck  his  wrist  mimically  show- 
ing that  he  had  slit  one  of  his  veins  to  slake  his 
thirst. 

But  the  great  act  of  Nurimiya's  life  came  on 
the  25th  of  August,  when  he  made  the  ninth 
assault  he  had  participated  in  during  the  seven 
days — and  the  first  successful  one.  Each  Jap- 
anese infantryman  carries  in  his  breast  a  linen 
flag — a  cheap  affair  that  you  might  pick  up  in 
a  department  store  for  a  few  pennies — a  red  sun 
on  a  white  field.  The  first  man  into  an  opposing 
trench  or  redoubt  waves  this  flag  above  his  head. 
It  is  a  signal  to  his  own  artillery,  showing  them 
where  they  must  not  fire,  and  also  acquaints 
the  commanding  officer,  viewing  the  action  from 
some  eminence  in  the  rear,  with  the  situation. 
Nurimiya  was  the  first  man  to  wave  his  little  flag 
over  the  Eternal  Dragon.  The  Eternal  Dragon 
was  the  only  fort  which  the  Japanese  held  in 
that  permanent  Russian  line  through  the  three 
months  of  August,  September  and  October,  and 
it  was  the  object  essential  to  the  engineers  in  out- 
lining   their   vast   siege    operations    across    the 


196  PORT   ARTHUR 

plain.  Thus  it  was  the  San  Francisco  watch- 
maker who  planted  the  flag  of  the  Rising  Sun 
on  the  key  fort  at  Port  Arthur. 

General  Nogi  chose  Nurimiya  and  his  four- 
teen comrades  for  body  servants  and  relieved 
them  for  the  rest  of  the  campaign  from  active 
duty  on  the  firing  line. 

This  is  how  I  found  him  at  the  General's 
house.  I  asked  if  he  wanted  to  go  back  to 
America.     He  replied: 

"War  all  finish  I  go.  Nogi-San  need  me  I 
stay." 

Then  with  great  eagerness  he  told  me  how  he 
wanted  to  get  back  into  the  fight  and  for  the  first 
time  in  all  our  acquaintance  his  eyes  lost  their 
dreaminess  and  the  clasp  of  his  hand  became 
taut  with  energy. 

I  did  not  tell  him  how  I  that  morning  had 
learned  from  the  General  himself  that  never 
again  should  Nurimiya  be  subjected  to  the 
supreme  test. 

"  Is  it  not  pleasant  here  at  headquarters,  with 
the  band,  and  the  foreigners,  and  the  nice  cook- 
ing, and  the  easy  work?  "  I  asked. 

He  was  not  interested  in  what  I  said.     He 


THE    GENERAL'S    PET         197 

waved  an  indefinite  arm  toward  the  front  and 
replied: 

*'  By-m-by  they  make  plenty  die  off  there. 
Then  I  go  back." 

He  had  not  yet  learned  that  he  was  the  Gen- 
eral's Pet. 


Chapter  Twelve 

COURTING  DEATH  UNDER  THE  FORTS 

ILLOW  TREE  VILLAGE,  Head- 
quarters Third  Imperial  Army,  Man- 
churia, four  miles  from  Port  Arthur, 
Oct.  5  th: 

It  was  in  August  that  the  Japanese  took  the 
Eternal  Dragon,  advanced  their  outposts  beyond 
its  walls,  threw  up  trenches,  and  settled  down 
this  inch  nearer  the  coveted  goal.  In  this  fearful 
fight  a  certain  part  of  the  field  was  taken  and 
retaken  seven  times,  and  finally,  for  strategic 
reasons,  though  the  fort  which  was  the  bone  of 
contention  rested  with  the  victors,  a  piece  of 
dead  ground  beyond,  over  which  these  repeated 
charges  had  occurred,  lay  partly  within  the  Rus- 
sian lines  and  partly  within  our  own.  Dead 
bodies  mingled  with  wounded — Russians  jowl 
by  cheek  with  Japanese — lay  over  it  so  thick  that 
a  man  might  have  walked  from  one  trench  to 
another    without    touching    the    earth.     The 

wounded  could  not  be  succored,  the  dead  could 

198 


DEATH    UNDER    THE    FORTS     199 

not  be  buried  except  when  they  lay  behind  the 
opposing  trenches.  Between,  no  living  thing 
could  exist.  The  lines  were  but  three  hundred 
yards  apart — a  distance  at  which  even  a  poor 
marksman  could  shoot  fatally,  and  through  all 
the  twenty-four  hours  the  two  trenches  were 
lined  by  sharpshooters  a  rod  apart  and  on  the 
constant  lookout. 

The  weather  was  perfect.  By  day  the  sun 
shone;  by  night  the  moon,  assisted  by  search- 
lights and  star  shells,  kept  the  plain  of  death  as 
light  as  day.  The  light  showed  the  loopholes  of 
the  trenches  so  well  that  they  could  not  be  used, 
for  the  moment  a  shadow  appeared  behind  one 
a  marksman  from  the  other  side  would  put  a 
bullet  through  it.  The  men  sighted  the  hypo- 
scope — an  instrument  first  used  extensively  at 
this  siege — which  is  a  telescope  arranged  with 
mirrors  at  a  reflex  angle,  so  the  scope  goes  over 
a  wall  while  the  eye  sees  in  perfect  safety  twelve 
inches  below.  At  occasional  places,  carefully 
shadowed,  they  kept  chinks  covered  by  stones, 
which,  when  the  sun  sank  to  the  proper  angle, 
or  at  dawn,  could  be  uncovered  to  make  a  peep- 
hole large  enough  for  a  man's  eye. 


200  PORT   ARTHUR 

Now  for  a  month,  under  a  torrid  sun,  un- 
marred  by  a  day  of  rain  or  scarce  a  fleck  of 
cloud,  hundreds  of  dead  have  lain  rotting  in 
that  compact  space.  A  flag  of  truce  to  bury  them 
was  out  of  the  question.  The  Japanese  had  far 
the  worst  of  it,  as  their  lines,  drawn  in  a  lunette, 
partly  surrounded  the  charnel  house  below 
which  they  lay,  steeped  in  its  noisome  drains. 
Moreover,  in  hastily  throwing  up  their  trenches 
the  night  of  the  battle,  corpses,  loosely  covered^ 
had  been  used  to  improvise  the  walls,  so  bodies 
and  stones  together  formed  a  shelter  which  in 
life  the  men  thus  commandeered  could  not  have 
made.  Well  the  Russians  knew  of  the  disease 
the  sun  was  breeding,  and  refused  a  truce,  for 
the  dead  played  well  into  their  hands.  Stench 
could  be  a  weapon  more  effective  than  bullets 
or  strategy.  So,  day  after  day  they  held  the 
Japanese  there,  as  a  dog's  nose  is  rubbed  in  his 
own  mess. 

Watch  on  sentry  posts  was  cut  from  four 
hours  to  two,  and  at  the  worst  portion  of  the  line 
to  one  hour.  The  pickets  swathed  their  thin 
brown  faces  in  towels  and  the  commissary  sup- 
plied smelling  salts.    An  officer  who  served  on 


DEATH    UNDER   THE    FORTS     201 

that  picket  line  twelve  days  told  me  that  the  sun 
alone  was  enough  to  defeat  an  ordinary  man  in 
four  hours.  Added  to  that  the  slightest  zephyr 
bore  a  fetid  breath  more  foul  than  the  lowest  of 
a  city's  sewers. 

During  the  first  day  groans  could  be  heard 
occasionally  from  the  contested  ground. 
Wounded — no  one  could  guess  how  many — lay 
there  dying.  To  have  attempted  succor  would 
have  been  suicide.  The  pickets  did  all  they 
could.  They  threw  rations  of  biscuits  beyond 
the  trenches,  scattering  them  along  the  ground, 
blindly,  of  course,  but  carefully  as  a  farmer 
strews  a  field.  A  company  divided  itself;  one 
part  sacrificed  its  water  bottles,  slinging  across 
their  shoulders  beer  bottles,  instead  of  the  handy 
and  handsome  aluminum  ones  furnished  by  the 
army.  Then  the  aluminum  bottles,  that  would 
stand  the  shock  of  striking,  which  might  shatter 
a  beer  bottle,  were  tossed  over  to  the  starving, 
thirsty  wretches. 

The  second  morning  there  came  some  desul- 
tory groans  from  the  farther  side.  The  groans 
suddenly  ceased.  Successive  rifle  pops  told  that 
the  Russian  sharpshooters  had  picked  off  the 


202  PORT   ARTHUR 

wounded.  Picket  duty  in  the  trenches  became 
more  deadly.  The  army  had  settled,  with  quiet 
determination,  into  a  siege.  One  night,  as  the 
moon  rose  over  another  division  of  the  army, 
two  thousand  yards  to  the  west,  there  appeared 
above  the  trenches  a  cap.  A  bullet  pierced  it 
instantly,  but  it  was  only  a  feint  cap  on  the  end 
of  a  stick.  The  picket  nearest  saw  it  was  a  Jap- 
anese cap,  and  called  his  challenge,  "Who  goes 
there?" 

"Tomodachi!"  (a  friend)  came  the  response. 

"  Show  your  arm." 

A  small  grimed  hand  on  an  emaciated  fore- 
arm was  thrust  above  the  parapet.  The  picket 
grasped  it  and  pulled  sharply.  With  a  groan  of 
agony  and  relief  a  bundle  of  rags,  dirt  and 
clotted  blood  tumbled  into  the  trench.  The 
picket  forgot  his  duty  as  he  knelt  over  his  com- 
rade, for,  ground  in  filth  and  caked  as  it  was 
with  dried  blood,  he  could  not  mistake  the  uni- 
versal brown  khaki,  and  under  an  arm  was  slung 
a  bit  of  cotton-incased  wood — a  Shinto  emblem, 
for  this  time,  at  least,  triumphant.  The  wounded 
soldier  fainted. 

In  a  field  hospital  this  afternoon  I  was  privi- 


\ 


C'.fjrrlghl,  /(/OS,  h    Collier's   ll'ri-kh 

HOW  THEY  GOT   IN 
Eighteen  miles  of  these  trendies  were  Aw^  throu^li  the  plain  before 


tlie  Russian  forts. 


DEATH    UNDER    THE    FORTS     203 

leged  and  honored  in  looking  upon  and  talking 
with  this  hero.  He  is  a  distinguished  soldier  of 
the  famous  Ninth  Regiment,  the  Black  Watch 
of  Japan,  which  lost  all  but  ten  per  cent,  of  its 
forces  in  that  illustrious  assault  under  the  Chi- 
nese wall.  So  marvelous  is  the  recovery  of  the 
wounded  that  the  soldier  smiled  as  he  lay,  speak- 
ing occasionally  a  few  words  in  response  to  my 
interpreted  questions.  His  head  and  legs  were 
swathed  in  bandages  and  he  was  sipping  sake — 
a  present  from  his  Emperor.  How  these  soldiers 
love  their  Emperor!  Well  they  may,  for  a  week 
ago  there  sailed  into  Dalny  harbor  a  transport 
laden  with  presents  from  His  Majesty  to  his  sick 
soldiers.  All  the  privates  got  sake,  all  the 
officers  brandy.  In  addition,  every  private  re- 
ceived a  present  of  three  yen  in  cash,  the  non- 
commissioned officers  from  three  to  ten  yen,  and 
the  commssioned  officers  from  ten  to  sixty  yen 
each. 

Here  is  the  soldier's  remarkable  account: 
"  I  was  one  of  the  few  who  reached  the  Chi- 
nese wall  that  terrible  August  afternoon.    There 
were  but  a  few  of  us  left,  scarce  half  a  company 
out  of  a  regiment,  when  the  Captain  in  com- 


204  PORT   ARTHUR 

mand  ordered  us  to  scale  the  wall.  I  had  but 
reached  for  the  stones  when  my  legs  went  from 
under  me — melted  away.  A  shell  fragment  had 
smashed  them  as  a  bamboo  pole  is  smashed  un- 
der a  hammer.  The  pain  was  little,  but  it  grad- 
ually spread  over  my  body.  I  became  numb, 
then  unconscious,  and  though  shells  were  busy 
all  about  me,  lay  for  hours  with  no  further  hurt. 
I  came  to,  under  the  stars." 

The  soldier  told  little  of  what  he  felt  and  saw, 
but  it  can  be  imagined;  the  vast  plain,  silent  but 
alive  with  hostile  trenches;  the  gloomy  fortress 
above,  bristling  with  cannon,  but  silent;  the  con- 
cealed batteries — his  own — miles  beyond,  from 
which  an  occasional  boom  and  whiz  startled  the 
gaunt  and  shivery  searchlights  in  their  fantastic 
pencilings;  then  his  sense  of  comrades  lost,  of 
dear  ones  perhaps  dead  within  sound  of  his 
voice,  with  memories  of  home  and  better  days; 
then  desolation  at  defeat,  the  foe  victorious, 
pride  alone  resolute,  triumphant  to  the  last. 

He  could  hear  sounds  of  pick  and  spade 
scratching  the  chilly  earth,  clamping  into  the 
shale.  Only  a  few  rods  away  the  reinforce- 
ments were  hastily  throwing  up  earth-works  to 


DEATH    UNDER    THE    FORTS     205 

hold  the  hard-won  ground.  He  saw  indistinct 
forms  groping  in  the  dusk,  pulling  about  other 
forms,  inanimate  ones,  and  hastily  covering  them 
with  earth.  The  dead  were  being  used  to  more 
quickly  fill  in  the  embankments.  In  a  few  days 
those  carcasses — rotting — would  charge  usur- 
ious toll  for  all  the  improvised  help  they  were 
this  fatal  night. 

The  soldier  tried  to  crawl  toward  his  com- 
rades, but  he  could  move  only  a  few  inches  at 
a  time,  so  intense  was  the  agony  in  his  legs,  for 
the  cool  of  night  and  renewed  circulation  had 
brought  back  his  senses  in  full  keenness. 

Soon  dawn  came  and  with  it  hell.  The  battle 
was  on  again,  this  time  in  other  parts  of  the  field, 
but  the  shells  and  bullets  so  often  passed  over 
him  that  he  came  to  think  of  himself  as  a  dead 
man  and  lived  on  only  because  nature  exerted 
her  just  law.  Like  an  opossum  he  feigned  death. 
Within  his  sight  were  more  than  a  hundred  dead 
and  twice  as  many  wounded.  Groans  welled  up 
like  bubbles  from  a  pot.  Arms  tossed  fever- 
ishly. Backs  writhed  in  despair.  Then  biscuits 
began  falling  from  his  own  trenches;  one  for- 
tunately fell  near  him.    He  also  managed  to  get 


2o6  PORT   ARTHUR 

a  tossed-over  water  bottle.  To  reach  it  he  was 
obliged  to  crawl  a  few  feet  and  as  his  hand 
touched  it  he  felt  a  sharp  pain  in  his  shoulder 
and  the  blood  trickled.  A  bullet  had  pinked 
him.    Instinctively  he  fell  as  if  dead. 

It  was  then  that  there  occurred  the  thing 
which  has  inflamed  the  army  as  tow  is  inflamed 
on  bonfire  nights.  The  whole  vast  amphitheater 
was  quiet.  It  was  sundown.  Nature  was  in  her 
most  gorgeous  raiment.  Both  armies  were  at 
supper  and  an  involuntary  truce  seemed  to  still 
the  hills  and  valleys  so  lately  fire-ringed.  In 
the  midst  of  this  peace  and  beauty  a  desultory 
firing  rang  from  the  Russian  trenches  nearest 
the  bloody  angle  in  which  lay  the  soldier  with 
his  comrades — dead  and  worse  than  dead.  The 
bullets  were  directed,  not  into  the  opposing 
trenches,  but  into  the  wounded  in  the  bloody 
angle. 

"Stand  to  your  guns,  men!"  came  from  the 
Japanese  trenches,  and  the  men  sprang  as  though 
to  resist  a  sortie. 

But  there  was  no  sortie.  The  Russians  were 
killing  the  wounded,  that  the  bodies  might  rot 
and  drive  their  comrades  from  below. 


DEATH    UNDER    THE    FORTS    207 

The  moving  ceased,  the  groans  ceased,  the  sun 
went  down,  the  stars  and  searchlights  came.  Im- 
pelled by  the  first  law  of  nature  the  soldier 
dragged  on,  wearily,  as  he  supposed,  toward  his 
friends.  But  the  ground  was  level  and  he  must 
have  gone  laterally.  Toward  dawn  he  tumbled 
into  a  deserted  trench  and  found  a  sort  of  shel- 
tered dugout.  It  was  a  covered  passage  to  the 
Russian  fort  and  untenable  now  by  either  side. 
In  it  were  two  Japanese  so  desperately  wounded 
they  could  not  move  and  could  barely  speak. 
He  shared  his  last  drop  of  water  with  them. 

As  they  were  drinking  a  figure  slouched  along 
the  trench  and  blocked  the  doorway.  It  wore 
a  black-visored  cap,  shiny  with  celluloid — a 
Russian  cap.  Searching  the  gloom  the  Russian 
found  the  three  wounded  soldiers.  Then  he 
poked  his  rifle  in  and  fired  three  bullets — one 
at  the  brain  of  each.  Two  died  instantly.  The 
third — the  soldier  who  had  already  survived 
as  by  a  miracle — passed  into  what  he  thought 
was  the  rigor  of  death.  All  grew  black  before 
his  eyes.  Never  from  that  moment  to  this — 
seventeen  days  later — has  he  seen  even  a  glim- 
mer, nor  will  he  ever  see  again.     The  bullet 


2o8  PORT   ARTHUR 

passed  across  his  eyes  as  he  lay  side  down  and 
shattered  the  optic  nerve. 

The  Russian  thought  his  work  complete. 
Leaving  his  rifle  outside  he  passed  into  the  dug- 
out and  emptied  the  pockets  of  the  two  dead 
men  and  the  third,  whom  he  believed  to  be  dead. 
Then  sneaking  back  up  the  passage,  the  Russian 
regained  his  own  lines. 

For  five  days  the  soldier  lay  in  the  dugout, 
unable  to  move,  unable  to  see,  numb  from  long 
suffering.  Almost  crazed  by  thirst  and  hunger, 
he  at  length  severed  the  arteries  of  one  of  his 
fallen  comrades,  newly  dead,  and  lived  on.  He 
found  worms  crawling  in  the  wounds  of  his  legs. 
He  tore  up  the  shirt  of  a  corpse  and  bound  them. 

Then  began  as  memorable  a  journey  as  man 
ever  made,  as  heroic  a  combat  for  life  as  pioneer 
or  warrior  ever  underwent.  He  started  to 
crawl  to  the  Japanese  lines.  Blinded,  para- 
lyzed, his  legs  shattered,  one  arm  useless,  half 
dead  with  fatigue,  his  tongue  swollen  with  thirst, 
and  starving,  he  made  his  piteous  way  a  few 
yards  each  night. 

Directions  were  useless.  Seeing  nothing  he 
could  not  tell  whether  firing  came  from  friend 


DEATH   UNDER    THE    FORTS     209 

or  foe.  He  only  knew  that  his  way  was  down. 
So  down  he  crawled.  Bullets  and  shells  passing 
over  him  became  so  common  he  lost  all  sense  of 
them.  By  a  terrible  mistake — an  error  that  cost 
twelve  days  of  agony,  for  otherwise  he  might 
have  traveled  the  few  essential  yards  in  a  night 
— he  missed  the  captured  fort  which  marked  the 
apex  of  the  wedge  driven  into  the  Russian  lines. 
And  so  his  fearful,  sublime  crawl  was  for  a 
thousand  yards  along  the  front  of  his  own  lines, 
into  which  at  any  time,  had  he  turned  straight 
along  the  face  of  the  hill,  he  might  have  come 
and  found  sound  legs  and  new,  clear  eyes.  But 
down  was  his  direction  and  down  he  went — a 
thousand  yards  in  twelve  nights.  He  found  a 
few  new  dead  with  biscuit  in  their  pockets  and 
blood  in  their  veins — this  saved  him. 

So  history  repeats  itself.  Ten  years  ago — to 
the  month — the  Japanese  lay  v/ithout  Port 
Arthur  as  they  do  to-day.  Instead  of  Russians, 
Chinese  were  inside.  But  as  the  Japanese  ad- 
vanced along  the  western  wall  they  suddenly  at 
a  bend  in  the  way  came  upon  ten  bodies — no 
more — of  their  own  comrades,  stripped  and 
mutilated,  the  heads  grinning  from  pikes  above. 


2IO  PORT   ARTHUR 

The  Chinese  had  visited  their  own  vengeance  on 
successful  enemies.  But  the  act  lost  them  Port 
Arthur.  The  Japanese  became  an  army  of 
fanatics,  a  tribe  of  solemn,  righteous  men,  in- 
flamed with  the  zeal  of  retribution,  blazing  with 
revenge,  as  did  once  that  ancient  civilization 
founded  on  the  prophetic  watchword,  "An  eye 
for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth."  The  next  day 
Port  Arthur  fell.  Those  ten  bodies  cost  the 
Chinese  a  province,  a  fortune  and  an  island 
kingdom. 

How  will  the  Russians  pay?  I  asked  this  of 
a  certain  Lieutenant-General,  who  told  me  some 
of  the  details  I  have  just  related.  He  raised  his 
arm  and  pointed  beyond  the  bombproof  in  which 
we  sat  to  where  the  western  harbor,  with  its 
magnificent  Russian  stone  dwellings  rising  be- 
yond could  be  plainly  seen. 

"We  have  a  proverb  in  our  country,"  said 
he,  "  like  this,  '  Once  won,  well  won;  twice  won, 
never  lost.'" 


Chapter  Thirteen 

FROM    KITTEN   TO   TIGER 

•EADQUARTERS,  Third  Imperial 
Army,  Before  Port  Arthur,  Sept. 
30th : — We  went  yesterday  to  the  fore- 
most firing  line,  where  all  the  venom 
of  war  is  concentrated  in  a  score  of  yards  among 
a  dozen  men.  There  we  saw  how  the  besiegers 
of  Port  Arthur  are  besieging  it,  how  they  live, 
what  manner  of  men  they  are,  and  some  of  the 
facts  of  modern  warfare  which  those  who  want  to 
know  about  the  humanity  of  science  had  better 
not  read.  Before  we  went  an  officer  led  us  to  a 
bombproof  on  the  Japanese  side  of  the  great 
valley  across  which  we  were  to  go  to  gain  the 
captured  fort. 

"  Look!"  said  he,  turning  over  his  hyposcope, 
"the  way  is  about  a  mile  and  a  half.  The  real 
danger  is  in  the  fort  itself,  but  if  you  are  very 
careful  to  crawl  with  your  heads  low  you  are 

safe.     If  you  decide  to  go  you  must  relieve  our 

211 


212  PORT   ARTHUR 

authorities  from  all  responsibility  for  your 
lives." 

Across  the  valley  a  puff  of  white  spat  out  a 
tongue  of  flame;  a  shell  crashed  into  the  escarp- 
ment below  us.  From  across  the  valley  came  the 
intermittent  puffing  of  outposts.  A  mis-shot  bul- 
let lapped  up  a  patch  of  dust  twenty  paces  to  our 
right. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  will  you  go?  It's  a  quiet 
morning.  We  had  better  start  soon  if  at  all,  for 
the  sun  is  in  their  eyes  now;  soon  it  will  be 
against  us  and  then  they  can  pick  us  off  like 
flies." 

Villiers  was  with  me.  "What  do  you  say?" 
he  asked.  "  It's  time  to  measure  risks.  Think 
what  you'll  get  out  of  it.  A  correspondent 
dead  is  of  no  use  to  his  paper,  and  people 
remember  him  as  a  fool  who  got  shot  in  some 
reckless  venture.  Remember,  you're  going  into 
bullet  fire  for  the  first  time.  You've  had  shell 
fire  only,  up  to  now,  and  shell  fire  is  to  bullets 
what  a  bluebottle  fly  is  to  a  tiger  mosquito. 
Forbes  used  to  have  a  supreme  contempt  for 
shell  fire  and  a  supreme  respect  for  bullets.  A 
shell  buzzes  and  blows — a  bullet  flits  in  quietly, 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  213 

spits  through  an  artery,  the  heart,  the  head — 
and  it's  all  over.  Their  rifles  fire  point  blank 
at  200  yards  and  up  where  you  want  to  go  the 
lines  are  but  forty  yards  apart.  They  can 
pick  off  a  ten-cent  piece  at  that  distance.  Re- 
member, if  your  head  shows  so  much  as  an  inch 
above  that  parapet,  you're  only  good  to  sniff  at 
when  the  wind  blows  from  you,  for  these  people 
have  no  extra  stretcher  for  your  useless  carcass." 
Villiers  can  say  these  things.  Somewhere  in  his 
London  studio  is  his  order  of  St.  George  which 
the  Czar  gave  him  for  audacity  at  Plevna.  Also 
some  seven  other  governments  have  decorated 
him  for  fit  war  behavior,  so  he  is  an  expert  on 
battlefields. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  think  of  what  there  is  up 
there:  the  bloody  angle,  scene  of  the  death  of 
3,000  men,  heaps  of  unburied  slain,  trenches 
made  of  corpses,  sentries  firing,  the  living  sleep- 
ing, eating,  working  among  their  dead  com- 
rades, the  enemy  on  three  sides,  with  this  single 
line  of  supply  and  retreat  down  which  only  four 
men  can  march  abreast.  This  captured  fort  is 
to  the  siege  of  Port  Arthur  what  Nanshan  is  to 
the   campaign — its    decisive   battle.     It   is   the 


214  PORT   ARTHUR 

wedge  Japan  is  driving  into  the  heart  of  Russia 
and  we'll  be  on  its  tip.  When  the  nations  hear 
the  truth  about  this  fort — the  assault  that  cap- 
tured it,  the  odds  against  which  it  was  fortified 
and  held  for  six  weeks — it  will  be  the  marvel  of 
the  age.  Think!  Would  you  miss  standing  on 
the  apex  of  the  world?" 

"  I  was  a  youngster  myself  once  and  I'm  not 
old  now,"  replied  Villiers.  "They  fake  these 
things  in  London  almost  as  well  as  I  can  do 
them  in  the  field,  so  why  risk  my  bones?  But 
I'm  as  good  as  a  Japanese  officer  or  an  Ameri- 
can reporter.  Up  to  now  we've  been  chap- 
eroned scribblers;  here  we  become  war  corre- 
spondents. It  smells  of  the  old  days:  Forbes, 
Cameron,  Pierce,  McGahan,  Jackson,  Bur- 
leigh— and  that  crowd  of  gay  devils.  Lead  on." 
Perhaps  you  will  be  more  interested  in  Villiers 
to  know  that  he  is  supposed  to  be  the  original  of 
Kipling's  character,  Dick  the  Artist,  in  "The 
Light  that  Failed." 

So  we  went  into  the  chipmunk's  burrow,  up 
through  the  cornfields,  frowned  on  by  a  hun- 
dred thousand  guns,  menaced  by  two  armies, 
until  we  nestled  in  the  ragged  hole  Japan  has 


KITTEN    TO   TIGER  215 

torn  in  Russia's  impregnable  last  stand.  Later- 
ally down  the  line  of  our  advance,  but  high  over 
our  heads,  shells  often  rammed  their  harsh  be- 
wilderment and  we  could  hear  them  strike, 
sometimes  rods,  sometimes  miles  away.  How 
like  a  live  thing  a  shell  snarls — as  some  wild 
beast,  in  ferocious  glee  thrusting  the  cruel  fangs 
in  earth  and  rock,  rending  livid  flesh  with  its 
savage  claws,  and  its  fetid  breath  with  poison 
powder  scorching  the  autumn  wind!  'Most 
always  it  fizzes  and  funks  in  shameful  waste. 
Bullets  are  the  nasty  things;  a  who-whit,  a  dry 
spat,  a  thin  hole  drilled  in  a  frightful  way,  as 
snakes  sling  their  venom  in  sly  and  easy  scorn. 
When  we  got  halfway  up,  and  into  the  angle, 
so  that  Russian  trenches  were  on  three  sides,  a 
number  sped  about  us.  Hardly  a  minute  but 
one  passed  over  our  heads. 

The  situation  looks  well  in  print.  Yet  we 
were  in  little  danger.  Our  wits  kept — we  were 
safe.  For  this  let  us  profoundly  thank  the  en- 
gineer who  built  that  siege  parallel — a  cunning 
masterful  Yankee  of  the  East,  whose  name  as  a 
military  engineer  must  be  handed  down  to 
future  generations  of  technical  students.     He 


2i6  PORT   ARTHUR 

had  taken  advantage  of  every  rise  in  the  ground 
and  of  every  depression.  Of  corn  stubble  he 
made  a  drapery,  of  hillocks  a  screen,  of  ravines 
an  ambuscade,  until  Nature  so  aided  him  that 
she  and  not  the  Japanese  infantry  was  the  as- 
saulting force  against  those  heights  beyond. 

We  walked  twenty  meters  apart,  for,  should 
we  by  any  chance  lift  our  heads  together  and  be 
sighted  in  a  party,  the  Russians  could  drop  a 
bit  of  shrapnel  over  us.  Otherwise  we  might 
be  ofif  for  a  morning  stroll  down  a  country  lane. 
We  crouched  as  we  walked,  for  the  trench  was 
built  for  Japanese,  who  average  a  few  inches 
less  in  height  than  a  foreigner.  The  distance  as 
the  crow  flies  was  little  over  half  a  mile;  we 
went  nearly  a  mile  and  a  half.  At  one  side  ran 
a  telephone  wire,  staked  down  at  intervals  with 
broken,  rusty  rifles.  At  every  angle  a  sentry 
saluted,  stepping  forth  grimly  from  a  dugout. 
Halfway  up  we  passed  a  stretcher  bearing  a 
body,  the  face  covered  with  coarse  matting, 
sewn  roughly — a  corpse  of  the  night  before. 
Farther  on  came  a  soldier  with  his  arm  in  a  wet, 
crimson  sling.  Half  an  hour  before,  feeling 
secure  after  days  in  the  ominous  place,  he  had 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  217 

passed  into  a  ravine  he  thought  safe,  but  out  of 
the  path  chosen  by  the  clever  engineer.  He  was 
in  the  Russian  fire  zone  and  presently  a  shell 
fragment  smashed  his  arm.  From  a  dozen  to 
fifteen  are  lost  that  way  every  day. 

Across  the  valley  we  halt  at  the  foot  of  a  hill 
and  then  turn  into  the  fort.  Chloride  of  lime  is 
sprinkled  here  over  the  human  effluvia  that  no- 
where else  can  be  deposited,  but  a  bone  sticks 
out  of  the  trench  wall.  I  look  closely.  It  is  a 
human  femur.  From  it  projects  a  heavy  coil  of 
rubber-insulated  cable.  The  officer  explains 
that  this  formed  the  electric  communications 
with  the  barbed  wire  entanglements  through 
which  we  are  passing,  and  that  on  the  day  of  the 
fight  it  was  charged  so  that  when  the  Japanese 
pioneers  tried  to  cut  the  wire  with  pincers  they 
were  prostrated  with  the  shock  and  had  to  wait 
for  glove-handled  tools.  Beside  it  is  a  long 
strip  of  bamboo,  torn  and  shattered.  This  was 
carried  to  the  attack  by  two  soldiers  who  with 
it  tossed  into  the  fort  a  short  strip  of  bamboo 
stufifed  with  gun  cotton.  This,  exploding,  tore  a 
hole  through  which  the  men  could  charge.  It 
was   a  more   effective   bombardment   than   the 


2i8  PORT   ARTHUR 

shells.  As  we  turned  the  corner  we  came  upon 
the  men  and  at  last  we  saw  the  besiegers  of  Port 
Arthur,  where  they  were  living,  200  yards  from 
the  Russian  trenches,  in  the  famous  redoubt 
where  enough  men  have  been  killed  to  cover  the 
place  four  deep  with  corpses. 

The  officer  took  up  a  pick  lying  in  the  trench. 
"Look!"  said  he,  "the  point  was  sharp  as  a 
grindstone  could  make  it  to  begin  with,  but  in 
some  places,  you  know,  the  rock  is  hard  and — " 
he  would  apologize.  He  was  very  sorry  we 
should  find  the  picks  in  such  bad  condition.  He 
was  always  apologizing.  He  apologized  for  the 
length  of  the  way,  the  heat  of  the  sun,  the  annoy- 
ance of  the  shells.  But  the  boys  in  khaki  smiled 
on.  Word  passed  as  to  who  we  were  and  they 
greeted  us  dumbly,  spread  out  their  pitiful  small 
blankets,  pulled  from  obscure  coats  and  corners 
their  precious  sweetmeats,  advanced  the  cigar- 
ettes that  mean  more  than  beef  to  a  soldier,  of- 
fered us  their  still  more  precious  tea.  All  over 
them  was  written  their  joy  in  being  recognized, 
in  having  someone  share  their  hardships. 

Death  on  the  battlefield  is  the  height  of  this 
soldier's  ambition.    But  not  uncleanliness  on  the 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  219 

battlefield,  and  all  the  time  we  sat  there  I  was 
aware  of  a  pervasive,  sickening  odor,  something 
strange,  something  frightfully  offensive. 

"What  can  it  be?"  I  said  as  it  bore  in  upon 
me  and  I  felt  suddenly  nauseated. 

"  Well,  in  the  hurry  of  building  these  trenches, 
in  the  night,  under  fire,  a  few  dead  bodies — 
only  a  few — were  rolled  into  the  escarpment. 

We  very  much  regretted  it ."     The  officer 

apologized  profusely,  but  they  had  been  under 
fire  ever  since  and  the  trenches  could  not 
be  torn  down.  So  they  stood — human  walls. 
"  But  I  can  assure  you  there  is  no  smell  now. 
The  first  week,  in  the  hot  sun — Ah!  then  I 
should  not  have  liked  to  bring  you  here."  As  I 
leaned  against  the  wall  something  crushed,  like 
the  snap  of  a  pencil,  under  my  back.  I  leaped, 
in  alarm,  to  my  feet.  As  I  turned  around  a  blue 
coat,  which  I  had  pushed  back  in  my  fatigue, 
fell  over  the  skeleton  of  a  hand,  and  at  my  feet 
dropped  the  joint  of  a  forefinger.  Villiers 
pulled  me  to  my  knees. 

"  Look  over  there,"  he  said  and  pointed  be- 
yond the  trench.  I  saw  fresh  earth  heaped  up. 
"  It  is  the  brow  of  the  Russian  works,"  he  said, 


220  PORT    ARTHUR 

"  but  look  in  between — that  pit  of  uniforms."  A 
mound  of  soiled,  tattered  clothes,  higher  than  a 
man  could  stand,  and  longer  than  a  company 
street,  lay  before  us,  not  fifty  feet  away.  At  the 
base,  facing  me,  detached  from  the  rest,  a  hid- 
eous skull  leered.  "Unburied  dead,"  Villiers 
said,  "  hugging  the  ground,  sent  back  into  the 
earth  from  whence  they  came." 

Then  the  officer  apologized.  Yes,  there  was 
no  chance  to  bury  the  dead.  Under  constant  fire 
for  six  weeks,  between  hostile  lines,  they  slowly 
rotted  away  until  only  bones  and  rags  remained 
— Russian  and  Japanese  inextricably  together 
on  the  scene  of  the  last  desperate  Russian  stand, 
where  was  concentrated  all  the  machine  gun 
fire  of  both  sides. 

Wounded  and  dying  had  been  mixed  with 
dead.  No  succor  was  possible.  A  general  must 
count  his  men  as  fighting  units  and  he  could  not 
afford  to  pay  a  dozen  good  lives  for  one  injured. 
We  turned  to  go — stomach  and  heart  sick,  but 
the  boys  in  khaki  smiled.  They  were  used  to  it. 
Just  then  the  postman  passed.  He  had  a  hand- 
ful of  cards,  scrawled  over  with  loving  mes- 
sages. 


KITTEN   TO   TIGER  221 

As  we  saw  how  complete  the  service  was — 
mail  delivered  under  the  shadow  of  guns,  and 
as  a  man  goes  on  to  the  firing  line  to  offer  up  his 
life — we  suddenly  came  to  the  telephone  which 
made  us  think  how  near  we  were  to  all  we  held 
dear.  That  line  was  connected  with  headquar- 
ters, headquarters  with  Tokyo,  Tokyo  with  New 
York  and  London.  I  suddenly  saw  myself  ring- 
ing up  the  editor  to  catch  an  edition. 

"Hello!  just  arrived  at  the  Eternal  Dragon. 
Quiet  this  morning.  Russian  sortie  last  night. 
Repulsed.  One  Japanese,  eighteen  Russians  lost 
— three  wounded  between  the  lines  calling  for 
water " 

''Hold  on,  what's  that?" 

''  Wait  a  minute  till  I  stop  this  infernal 
racket."  Down  with  the  receiver.  To  the  Col- 
enel:  "  Can't  you  stop  that  battery  a  minute? 
I'm  at  the  'phone." 

"  All  right,  editor.  Wounded  man  says — 
Hold  on  a  minute.  It's  that  blasted  volley  fir- 
ing. All  right.  I  was  saying,  a  wounded — Hell, 
here  comes  a  shell!" 

We  turned  another  corner  and  came  upon  the 
commander  of  the  regiment — a  lieutenant-col- 


222  PORT   ARTHUR 

onel,  stern-faced,  with  that  eternal  smile,  a  coun- 
tenance nationally  characteristic.  He  welcomed 
us  to  his  shelter  between  two  walls — which  the 
Russians  had  built  and  which  our  shells  de- 
stroyed. His  staff — a  captain  and  a  major — 
sat  crosslegged  on  one  side.  We  sat  on  a  red- 
blanketed  bench  on  the  other.  Crosslegged,  on 
his  red  blanket,  he  was  no  better  fitted  than  his 
men.  At  his  side  on  a  nail  hung  his  sword  and 
cap.  Behind  him  suspended  from  two  wires 
was  the  regimental  flag,  in  a  plush  case.  It  is 
30  years  old,  has  been  in  18  battles,  and  is  all 
but  gone  from  bullet  fire.  To  the  regiment  it 
is  a  sacred  emblem.  This  is  the  illustrious  Sev- 
enth Regiment  which  captured  the  Eternal 
Dragon,  after  losing  all  but  ten  per  cent,  of  its 
number  and  which  now,  after  a  month  with  the 
reserves  when  its  ranks  were  replenished,  is 
back  for  a  week  on  sentry  duty.  So  intense  is 
the  service  there,  one  week  in  four  is  all  a  single 
regiment  can  stand.  We  were  served  with  tea 
in  daintily  lacquered  cups  and  then  the  lieuten- 
ant-colonel passed  sake  and  tea,  asking  permis- 
sion to  drink  our  health. 

"Where  is  the  Colonel?"  I  asked  the  officer. 


y 

V 

a. 


<  i 

CO 

J?  a. 

i  2  ■ 

O  V4-. 

V  V    , 


> 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  223 

Then  he  apologized  again.  He  was  sorry  he 
couldn't  oblige  me,  but  unfortunately  the  Colo- 
nel had  been  killed  about  twenty  yards  from 
where  I  then  sat.  His  body  had  been  cremated 
within  three  paces  of  my  present  seat.  Just  be- 
yond the  tent  I  could  see  his  grave,  should  I 
look.  I  leaned  out  and  in  a  niche  of  the  wall 
saw  a  plain  white  stick  ideographed  in  black. 
At  the  base  was  a  bottle  of  flowers  and  a  Chinese 
pumpkin.  It  contained  the  ration  a  soldier  calls 
"  iron,"  and  some  sweetmeats  beside  a  can  of 
water.  Then  we  knew  what  some  living  soldier 
had  done.  The  ghost  might  come  wandering 
back  in  the  night  and  be  hungry.  It  should  not 
suffer.  We  went  on  to  more  tea  with  the  new 
live  Colonel  and  some  sweetmeats  which  we 
utilized  differently  than  the  ghost  had  evidently 
utilized  his.  "How  was  he  killed?"  I  asked. 
Then  we  heard  the  story  of  the  capture  of  the 
Eternal  Dragon. 

"  It  was  a  hot  August  afternoon,"  said  the 
officer,  our  interpreter,  "  and  the  general  of  this 
division,  a  very  determined  man,  resolved  that 
the  time  had  come  to  pierce  the  Russian  center. 
So    he   chose    the    Seventh    Regiment    for   the 


224  PORT    ARTHUR 

honor.  It  is  the  regiment  to  which  the  young 
Captain,  wounded,  and  rescued  by  the  Russian 
prisoner,  of  whom  you  were  talking  this  morn- 
ing, belonged.  The  Colonel  made  his  plan  of 
attack  to  have  his  command  advance  in  three 
battalions,  one  on  each  flank  and  one  in  the  front, 
the  flanks  to  be  the  real  attack,  the  front  to  be  a 
feint.  He,  himself,  commanded  the  feint,  and, 
as  usual,  stayed  in  the  rear.  He  sent  his  pioneer 
corps  ahead  to  cut  the  barbed  wire  entangle- 
ments. They  came  back  with  the  report  of  elec- 
tric charge.  They  went  forward  again  with 
insulated  pincers  and  the  regiment  followed. 
All  the  way  to  the  base  of  the  hill,  where  we 
now  are,  they  were  almost  unmolested,  when 
they  had  expected  to  meet  a  fierce  shell  fire. 
This  made  them  confident.  But  the  Russian 
general,  as  we  afterward  learned,  had  ordered 
his  men  to  reserve  their  fire  till  we  got  within 
close  range,  and  then  to  give  it  to  us  with  ma- 
chine guns.  So  the  two  side  battalions  got  safely 
well  up  to  the  slope,  only  to  meet  a  terrible  rain 
of  steel  from  the  top.  The  aim  was  so  sure  and  the 
firing  so  heavy  that  nearly  two-thirds  of  the  com- 
mand was  mowed  down  at  once.    And  the  sur- 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  225 

prise  we  found  was  in  their  construction  of  the 
fort.  Where  we  supposed  our  shells  had  opened 
gaps  in  it,  we  found  it  intact  and  our  assaulting 
party  unable  to  gain  foothold,  for  the  Russians 
had  placed  boiler  plates  under  two  feet  of  earth 
and  the  shells  had  had  little  or  no  effect  on  it. 

"When  the  Colonel  learned  all  this  he  got 
mad,  and  instantly  ordered  the  third  Battalion  to 
assault  the  front  in  force.  He  led  the  charge. 
A  few  of  the  men  got  in  and  fought  hand  to 
hand  with  the  Russians.  By  that  time  another 
regiment  had  arrived  with  reinforcements, 
charged  through  the  breach  and  overwhelmed 
the  Russians,  driving  them  out  of  the  place. 
Though  we  are  dominated  by  six  of  their  bat- 
teries and  have  been  assaulted  by  them  eighteen 
times  in  attempts  to  recapture,  we  have  ever 
since  held  it.  The  Colonel's  body  was  found 
under  a  heap  of  slain.  In  it  were  twenty-four 
bullet  holes.  His  sword  was  broken  at  the  hilt. 
His  cap  was  missing  and  we  searched  for  it  a 
long  time  without  success,  until  one  day  our 
lookout  spied  it  between  the  lines.  Certain  death 
seemed  the  price  for  a  man  to  try  to  get  it,  but  as 
soon  as  the  Colonel's  servant,  a  soldier,  learned 


226  PORT   ARTHUR 

where  it  was,  he  volunteered  and  succeeded  one 
dark  night  in  regaining  it,  so  the  cremation 
could  take  place  properly.  If  you  wish  now, 
follow  the  Captain  into  the  fort  and  you  will 
see  the  foremost  trenches.  Keep  your  heads 
low." 

Then  we  saw  the  kitten  become  a  tiger.  We 
passed  from  the  hospitable  soldier,  with  his 
sweetheart's  letters,  his  welcoming  smile,  his  in- 
nocent and  friendly  telephone,  his  harmless  tea 
and  cakes,  to  the  firing  line,  to  death,  and  to 
worse  than  death. 

It  was  hands  and  knees  into  the  fort  and  the 
front  trenches.  This  is  the  tip  of  the  bloody 
angle,  with  the  enemy  on  three  sides.  Bullets 
passed  over  us  continually.  Shells  were  burst- 
ing far  away.  Twice  we  passed  half  ruined 
chambers  built  of  timber  below  ground — Rus- 
sian food  and  ammunition  shelter.  It  was  high 
noon.  At  length  we  lay,  panting,  under  a  pile 
of  sapling  poplars;  above  us  were  sand  bags  six 
deep. 

"We  are  perfectly  safe  here,"  said  the  officer, 
and  we  looked  out. 

"  Except  from  ricochet  bullets,"  added  Vil- 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  227 

liers.  "The  zone  of  fire  of  those  chaps  yonder 
is  away  from  us  and  as  long  as  they  exchange 
we're  all  right.  Shells  can't  reach  us,  even 
shrapnel  would  be  nullified  by  this  covering,  but 
when  those  bullets  strike  a  stone  no  one  can  tell 
how  they  will  come.  They  can  shoot  around  a 
corner  from  a  flat  stone  as  easily  as  in  the  open 
through  a  loop-hole." 

I  heard  nothing.  Standing  up,  secure,  my 
eyes  came  upon  him  suddenly — the  soldier  of 
the  Emperor,  the  boy  who  does  the  trick — at 
work.  He  was  crouched  under  the  parapet  in 
front,  rifle  to  cheek,  its  steel  nose  through  a 
loophole,  his  finger  on  the  trigger.  The  tensity 
of  his  muscles  and  his  eyes  glancing  down  that 
barrel  in  deadly  aim  made  me  think  of  nothing 
but  a  great  cat  pausing  for  a  spring.  One  leg  was 
drawn  up,  his  cap  was  pulled  down  viciously 
over  his  eyes,  the  sun  beat  upon  him  and  he 
lay,  venomous  with  pent-up  passion,  cut  in  sil- 
houette against  the  trenches,  a  shade  darker  than 
the  shale.  A  minute  before  he  had  offered  me 
tea  and  a  cigarette;  now  he  was  dealing  out  hot 
lead.  Yet,  who  could  suspect  danger,  with  all 
so  still  and  clear!     But  life  most  intense  and 


228  PORT   ARTHUR 

death  the  most  terrible  and  swift  dwelt  all  about 
us.  Through  chinks  in  the  wall  a  row  of  sand 
bags  on  a  mound  of  earth  could  be  seen.  They 
marked  the  Russian  trenches  behind  which  the 
enemy  lay  as  silent  and  deadly  as  the  boys  on 
our  side.  Not  a  minute  passed  without  its  bullet. 
Forty  meters  was  the  distance,  the  officer  said, 
the  closest  place  in  the  whole  ten-mile  front  of 
the  two  armies.  By  day,  when  the  Russians  stay 
quiet,  sentries  stand  three  yards  apart,  by  night, 
shoulder  to  shoulder.  They  are  changed  every 
thirty  minutes  so  intense  is  the  strain.  A  regi- 
ment can  stay  in  the  fort  only  seven  days  because 
the  Russians  are  above  and  on  three  sides,  and 
they  must  keep  them  out,  while  they  stew  in 
their  own  juice  and  their  comrades  rot  beyond 
the  wall.  When  a  sortie  is  made  neither  side 
asks  for  quarter  nor  expects  it.  The  Russians 
know  that  unless  they  regain  their  trenches  they 
will  not  live,  for  to  be  wounded  and  fall  in  the 
bloody  angle  means  slow  death  where  no  aid 
can  come;  to  meet  the  Japanese  line  means  in- 
stant death.  The  Japanese  know  their  chances, 
if  wounded,  are  the  same,  and  if  they  reach 
the  Russian  lines  they  accept  only  two  things — 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  229 

victory  or  death.  So  it  is  that  here  through  long 
weeks  the  siege  has  concentrated  its  bitterest 
essence,  living  has  come  to  be  a  burden  and 
death  a  joy. 

Then  came  the  thud  of  a  bullet.  It  was  a  dif- 
ferent thud  from  any  we  had  had  up  to  that 
time,  and  though  I  had  never  before  heard  a 
bullet  strike  flesh,  I  could  not  mistake  the  sound. 
It  goes  into  the  earth  wholesome  and  angry,  but 
into  flesh  ripping  and  sick  with  a  splash  like  a 
hoof  beat  of  mud  in  the  face. 

I  turned  to  look.  I  saw  the  nearest  sentry 
sinking  to  his  knees.  His  rifle  had  dropped  and 
was  leaning  against  the  wall,  butt  down.  He 
sank  together  all  in  a  heap  and  his  head  hung 
limp,  his  chin  against  his  breast. 

"  Poor  chap,"  said  Villiers,  "  he  was  looking 
at  us  and  got  in  front  of  the  loop  hole.  I  sup- 
pose we  are  so  great  a  novelty  in  his  strained 
existence  that  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
to  neglect  his  duty  for  a  minute." 

We  crawled  back  and  out  silently  and  quickly, 
bade  a  hurried  good-by  to  the  Colonel,  hast- 
ened past  the  smiling,  oblivious  men — they  are 
used  to  it — and  over  a  mile  and  a  half  of  chip- 


230  PORT    ARTHUR 

munk  burrow.  The  General  was  waiting  tiffin 
for  us  in  his  tent.  There  was  a  jar  containing 
Strawberry  jam  like  grandmother  used  to  make. 
With  a  flash  it  brought  back  all  the  comforts  of 
home.  An  empty  shell  in  the  center  of  the  table 
held  some  field  daisies  and  wild  crysanthemums. 
All  the  fragrance  of  the  fields  and  the  beauties 
of  nature  came  with  them.  At  my  mess  plate 
lay  an  American  newspaper,  just  delivered  by 
this  incomprehensible  field  post.  With  it  civ- 
ilization, its  myriad  passions  and  joys,  floated 
in.  As  the  cigars  were  passed  I  opened  the 
paper.  I  found  an  interview  with  Dr.  Nicholas 
Senn,  of  Chicago,  in  which  he  said: 

"  All  the  talk  of  inhumanity  which  some  cor- 
respondents are  sending  out  from  the  Orient  is 
foolish.  Statements  of  soldiers  being  wounded 
in  the  mouth  and  reports  of  all  similar  acts 
of  atrocity  can  be  set  down  as  being  without 
foundation.  Russia  has  the  best  Red  Cross  So- 
ciety in  the  world  and  the  Russians  are  an 
extremely  humane  people.  Likewise,  this  war 
is  going  to  be  a  humane  war.  As  for  the  Japa- 
nese, the  worst  that  can  be  said  of  them  is  that 
they  are  a  proud  people."    I  read  this  aloud.    It 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  231 

was  translated  and  the  officers,  Lieutenant-Gen- 
eral  Oshima  and  his  staff,  listened.  None  of 
them  replied.    Finally  Villiers  said: 

"The  question  is  not:  Are  the  Japanese  or  the 
Russians  a  humane  people,  or  not  a  humane  peo- 
ple? It  is:  Are  individual  men,  under  condi- 
tions the  most  terrible  the  imagination  can 
devise.  Christians  or  savages?  Both  Japanese 
and  Russians  socially  are  delightful  people.  I've 
lived  with  the  armies  of  both  nations  and  their 
soldiers  are  delightful  and  humane.  But  that 
is  not  the  question. 

"  Now,  is  it  possible  for  soldiers  living  as  we 
saw  them  to-day — in  their  own  filth,  unable  to 
succor  the  wounded,  preyed  on  by  stenches  from 
the  dead,  until  battle  in  which  they  neither  ask 
nor  give  quarter  is  a  welcome  relief — can  the 
word  'humane'  be  uttered  in  speaking  of  lives 
such  as  theirs?  Or  can  it  be  uttered  of  the  Rus- 
sians— driven  into  a  trap,  half-starved,  night 
and  day  in  the  trenches,  confronted  by  over- 
whelming numbers,  with  certainty  of  no  relief, 
yet  defending  a  lost  hope  with  lives  easier  lost 
than  lived?  Would  you  be  'humane'  under 
such  conditions?    I  am  sure  I  would  not. 


232  PORT   ARTHUR 

"  No.  The  truth  about  war  cannot  be  told. 
It  is  too  horrible.  The  public  will  not  listen. 
A  white  bandage  about  the  forehead  with  a 
strawberry  mark  on  the  center  is  the  picture 
they  want  of  the  wounded.  They  won't  let  you 
tell  the  truth  and  show  bowels  ripped  out,  brains 
spilled,  eyes  gouged  away,  faces  blanched  with 
horror.  The  only  painter  fellow  who  ever  told 
the  truth  about  war  was  Verestchagin,  poor  chap, 
drowned  over  there  in  the  harbor.  He  in  paint 
and  Zola  in  words  told  the  truth  and  they  were 
howled  down  and  ostracized  all  their  lives,  sim- 
ply because  the  theorists,  like  this  surgeon,  fed 
up  with  themselves,  nursed  in  the  belief  that 
science  is  all  powerful,  will  always  assure  the 
public  that  modern  war  is  humane. 

"  Scientific  warfare!  Let  me  tell  you  the  facts 
about  science.  Archibald  Forbes  predicted 
twenty  years  ago  that  the  time  would  come  when 
armies  would  no  longer  be  able  to  take  their 
wounded  from  the  field  of  battle.  That  day  has 
come.  We  are  living  in  it.  Wounded  have  ex- 
isted— how,  God  alone  knows — on  that  field  out 
there,  without  help,  for  twelve  days,  while  shell 
and  bullets  rained  above  them,  and  if  a  comrade 


KITTEN    TO    TIGER  233 

had  dared  to  come  to  their  assistance  his  would 
have  been  a  useless  suicide.  The  searchlight,  the 
enginery  of  scientific  trenches,  machine  guns, 
rifles  point  blank  at  200  yards  with  a  range  of 
2,000 — these  things  have  helped  to  make  war- 
fare more  terrible  now  than  ever  before  in 
history. 

"  Red  Cross  societies  and  scientific  text-books 
— they  sound  well  and  look  pretty,  but  as  for 
*  humane  warfare ' — was  there  ever  put  into 
words  a  mightier  sarcasm!" 

This  was  translated.  The  officers — Lieuten- 
ant-General  Oshima  and  three  of  his  staff — list- 
ened, gravely.  No  one  said  anything.  Finally, 
we  walked  home  silently  as  the  sun  went  down. 


Chapter  Fourteen 

SCIENTIFIC   FANATICS 

QOON  found  me  well  up  toward  the  fir- 
ing line,  assured  by  the  staff  that  it 
would  be  the  day  of  days.  To  get 
there  I  passed  a  mile  and  more  of  bat- 
teries— the  Osacca  guns  vomiting  balls  of  fire, 
puff-balls  of  smoke  and  fat,  heavy  balls  of  steel; 
the  howitzers — coyotes  of  artillery — spitting 
from  peaks,  snapping,  louder  than  the  monsters 
growl  below;  the  naval  six-inch  turret  firers, 
rakishly  sunk  in  valleys,  their  greyhound  noses 
dappled  with  mud,  baying  out  reverbera- 
tions at  which  even  the  sulking  sun  might  have 
shuddered;  the  field  four-point-sevens,  bag- 
redoubted,  conventional  as  pictures,  flinging 
forth  the  business  barks  of  house  dogs;  then, 
finally,  the  hand  one-pounders,  hauled  well  up 
the  parallels,  their  bodies  angled  half-wise  and 
as  forlorn  amid  such  colossal  music  as  a  penny 

whistle  before  a  symphony  orchestra.       To  be 

234 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       235 

in  it,  to  pass  through  it,  to  feel  this  whiz  and 
boom  people  the  air  above  with  demon  gossip,  to 
sniff  from  ravines  the  gusts  seeped  with  cordite 
and  with  phosphorus,  while  in  the  far-stretched 
vistas  bluecoat  files  wind  through  the  fierce, 
vain  taunts  hurled  in  among  them — ah,  this  is  the 
atmosphere — the  grand,  the  fearful,  the  un- 
speakably sublime  atmosphere  of  war. 

Cloudy!  Yes,  but  what  day  could  smile  in 
the  face  of  such  a  row  as  this?  The  grand  bom- 
bardment has  been  on  for  five  days.  We  call  it 
the  "grand"  bombardment,  to  distinguish  it 
from  that  other  trifling  bombardment  of  a  few 
hundred  field  guns  that  was  on  for  nearly  three 
months.  Now  the  big  coast  defense  mortars 
from  Osacca,  hurling  shells  the  size  of  donkeys, 
are  ripping  the  lining  from  the  doomed  fortress. 
We  cry  for  rest,  but  there  is  no  rest.  Night  and 
day  the  fearful  din  keeps  up.  The  paper  win- 
dows of  the  Manchurian  house  where  we  live, 
two  miles  away,  have  been  blown  out  twice  by 
concussions.  The  mountains  tremble.  If  you 
get  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  guns,  you  must 
wear  cotton  batting  in  your  ears  and  walk  tiptoe 
to  save  ear-drums.     This  for  a  ten-mile  front, 


236  PORT   ARTHUR 

with  infantry  and  regular  artillery  hammering 
the  spaces  out,  was  enough  to  discourage  the  sun. 
Sun,  however,  is  an  incident.  War  waits  for  no 
weather. 

Halfway  in  among  the  batteries  I  paused  for 
guidance.      There  were  certain  lines  between 
our  batteries  and  the  Russian  batteries  which 
were  called  "  lines  of  fire,"  and  these  lines  were 
good  places  to  avoid.     Soon  two  soldiers,  each 
with  a  rice  bag  on  his  back,  came  along,  and  I 
picked  up  their  trail.     There  was  a  narrow  val- 
ley which  led  to  the  Ninth  Division,  whose  fir- 
ing line  was  to  be  the  center  of  the  attack  and 
for  which  I  was  bound.     Along  the  center  of 
this  valley  seemed  to  me  the  right  way,  but  the 
soldiers  headed  straight  across  it,  business-like, 
stolid,  as  if  they  knew  where  to  go,  and  I  fol- 
lowed.    We  were  fair  in  the  midst  of  it  then. 
In  ravines  on  both  sides  the  Osacca  mortars  were 
hid.     From  behind  and  directly  over  our  heads 
a  naval  battery  was  firing,  and  in  front  of  us 
there  were  four  or  five  batteries  of  field  artillery, 
opening  the  engagement.      There  was  never  a 
moment  without  two  or  three  shells  in  the  air 
directly  over  our  heads.     So  long  as  they  were 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       237 

friendly  shells — imagine  a  shell  being  friendly! 
— no  one  seemed  to  mind.  (That  "seemed"  is 
a  good  word  to  describe  my  state.)  But  directly 
they  came  viciously  from  across  the  valley — 
look  out!  Presently  one  did  come  that  way. 
I  knew  it  was  coming.  How?  I  felt  it.  So 
the  ground  in  front  found  my  stomach  and  my 
nose  sniffed  the  gravel.  It  could  not  have 
passed  very  far  above  our  heads — this  shell — for 
when  it  exploded  behind  the  dust  showered  over 
us,  and  I  thanked  myself  for  lying  down,  else  a 
fragment  might  have  rapped  me  so  I  would 
have  cared  nothing  for  dust  or  dirt  of  stale  en- 
campments. Of  course,  the  soldiers  must  have 
lain  down,  too — they  surely  must  have  known 
the  danger.  I  looked  up  to  laugh  with  them, 
but  they  were  trudging  on  stolidly,  as  if  they 
were  carrying  a  pound  of  meat  home  from  the 
butcher's.  When  the  dust  came  they  blinked — 
that  was  all.  I  was  so  ashamed  I  hardly  dared 
show  myself;  yet  I  needed  my  legs  to  get  on  out 
of  the  line  of  fire,  and  there  are  times  one 
forgets  his  pride.  I  ran;  but  no  need  to  be 
ashamed;  they  had  not  seen  me  fall,  had  neither 
quickened  nor  lessened  pace,  had  turned  not  so 


238  PORT   ARTHUR 

much  as  an  eyelash  to  left  or  right.  They  had 
orders  to  take  that  rice  to  the  battery,  and  to  the 
battery  they  were  going.  So  I  paused — amaze- 
ment surviving  fear — and  looked  at  them,  cogs 
of  the  machine,  secret  of  an  army's  strength,  of 
its  indomitable  bravery.  As  well  expect  the 
shafts  of  an  engine  to  cry  quits  when  the  trucks 
spring  a  hot  box! 

At  length  I  found  myself  where  the  pewit  of 
bullets  beat  a  quickstep  for  the  inferno  aloft. 
It  was  on  the  crest  in  front  of  the  farthest  field 
artillery,  at  the  rear  of  the  parallels  in  which 
the  infantry  lay,  huddled  masses  of  blue  dabbed 
above  with  glints  of  bayonet  steel,  waiting  for 
the  assault.  Occasionally  the  sun  came  out  and 
sent  a  heliograph  message  from  those  bayonets 
to  me,  and  then,  like  myself,  sought  cover  again. 
The  four  forts  slated  for  attack  by  the  two  divi- 
sions in  my  view  lay  directly  in  front,  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  by  parallels  and  approaches,  but, 
as  my  vision  went,  eight  hundred  yards  for  the 
nearest,  fifteen  hundred  for  the  farthest.  From 
the  rear  that  assorted  pack  of  war-dogs  flung 
suspense  and  agony,  surprise  and  death,  over  my 
head.     Beyond,  the  forts,  hung  like  a  corona  of 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       239 

barbarous  gems  on  the  brow  of  the  mountain 
range,  gushed  forth  pain  and  disgust. 

The  Pine  Tree  fort  (Shodzuzan)  on  the  ex- 
treme right  was  afire,  had  been  for  two  hours, 
and  the  smoke  from  it,  blown  by  a  northwest 
wind,  lifted  raggedly  square  across  the  field. 
Through  the  slight  haze  each  explosion  opposite 
could  be  seen,  as  it  tore  out,  now  a  chunk  of  a 
mountain  and  now  a  crater  from  a  parapet. 
About  half-past  twelve  the  star  bomb  chamber 
of  the  south  battery,  the  one  nearest,  was  struck, 
and  for  ten  minutes  an  explosion  of  day  fire- 
works held  the  line.  On  the  north  battery  two 
guns  hung  across  the  parapet,  their  backs 
broken,  useless.  On  the  two  smaller  forts  be- 
tween, the  P  and  M  redoubts,  men  could  be 
seen  feverishly  working  at  a  rear  intrenchment. 
Evidently  they  were  preparing  to  retire  from 
the  front  line,  where  they  already  scented  dan- 
ger. But  they  as  evidently  showed  determina- 
tion to  fight  to  the  last  ditch — which  they  did. 
All  four  of  these  forts,  spread  fanwise  halfway 
down  this  mountain  slope,  formed  the  group 
called  the  Cock's  Comb  (Keikan,  Japanese; 
Keekwan,  Chinese),  and  above  them  on  the  sky- 


240  PORT   ARTHUR 

line  the  comb  could  be  plainly  seen,  lacking  only 
the  dab  of  red,  later  to  be  given  its  approaches, 
to  give  it  the  cock  color.  It  was  on  the  Cock's 
Comb  that  half  of  the  great  losses  in  August  oc- 
curred. Some  ten  thousand  Japanese  had  al- 
ready been  mowed  down  there,  for  every  slope 
was  prepared  for  enfilading  by  two  batteries,  the 
moats  were  deep,  the  fortifications  of  masonry 
and  the  glacis  sheer  and  slippery.  Yet  the 
Cock's  Comb  once  taken,  the  Russians  must 
yield,  for  it  was  to  the  siege  of  Port  Arthur  what 
Nanshan  was  to  the  campaign — the  decisive 
position.  Once  driven  from  there,  the  enemy's 
back  would  be  broken.  The  fall  of  the  Cock's 
Comb  and  the  Two  Dragons,  on  December  31st, 
forced  Stoessel's  surrender. 

At  one  o'clock  the  bombardment  seemed  to 
have  reached  a  climax  of  intensity.  The  para- 
pets of  the  four  forts  were  alive  with  bursting 
shrapnel.  A  hundred  a  minute  were  exploding 
on  each  (at  fifteen  gold  dollars  apiece).  The 
air  above  them  was  black  with  the  glycerine 
gases  of  the  mortar  shells,  and  the  wind  blow- 
ing toward  the  sea  held  huge  quantities  of  dust. 
Timber  splinters  were  in  the  air  and  rocks  were 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       241 

flying.  Not  a  fort  replied,  and  from  the  entire 
eight-and-one-half-mile  front  of  the  Russian  line 
there  were  few  answers.  Once  about  every  ten 
minutes  a  wheezy  battery  ofif  on  the  Liaotishan 
Peninsula  sent  a  shell  promiscuously  into  our 
vast  field,  apparently  to  show  that  the  defense 
was  yet  at  least  gasping  for  breath. 

In  the  front  parallels  the  infantry  seemed  on 
the  move.  There  was  a  shifting  of  rifles,  and  in 
three  of  them,  from  end  to  end,  a  man  could  be 
seen  running.  The  night  before  I  had  been  up 
there  to  find  all  of  the  soldiers  changing  their 
linen  and  sponging  themselves  off  as  best  they 
could  with  old  towels  and  soiled  handkerchiefs. 
They  were  purifying  themselves  for  death.  A 
superstition  as  old  as  Japan  says  that  a  man  who 
dies  dirty  finds  no  place  among  the  Shinto 
shades.  Now  they  were  waiting  calmly,  each 
with  an  overcoat  and  spade  across  his  back. 
Why  the  spade?  Will  it  be  necessary  to  hastily 
intrench  for  the  night  far  up  the  slope?  Each 
had  an  "iron"  ration  in  his  pocket,  and  a  pint 
of  cold  tea  in  his  flask.  Two  hundred  rounds  of 
ammunition  in  his  three  leather  pouches  go  to 
help  the  bayoneted  rifle  that  he  slings  by  its  strap, 


242  PORT   ARTHUR 

its  butt  dragging  as  he  goes  up  the  hill.  What  a 
job  it  is,  this,  of  living  in  a  pocket  handkerchief, 
on  compressed  air,  giving  and  receiving  death, 
for  three  cents  a  day! 

At  one-fifteen  our  fire  changes.  The  four 
forts  are  left  to  their  silence  and  devastation,  and 
the  fat  balls  travel  westward  to  the  Pine  Tree 
and  the  Two  Dragons.  For  a  moment  the  slopes 
stand  out,  ghastly  with  smoke,  pitted  like  straw- 
berries, each  pit  a  shell  hole  deep  enough  to  give 
a  man  shelter. 

Before  anyone  knows  it  the  assault  is  on.  The 
four  get  it  at  once.  From  the  bottom  of  each, 
out  of  the  approach  sapped  there  in  the  night,  a 
handful  of  men  is  fed,  as  corn  might  drop,  grain 
by  grain,  ground  from  a  hopper.  They  get  a 
few  rods  up  when  another  handful  is  fed,  then 
another,  until  the  whole  face  of  the  hill  is 
swarming  with  tiny  figures,  their  blue  turned  in 
the  distance  to  black,  the  space  between  each  at 
no  place  less  than  two  yards,  at  none  more  than 
two  rods.  Not  in  battalion  phalanx,  as  the  pic- 
ture books  show,  shells  dismembering,  arms 
thrown  aloft,  faces  wild  with  battle's  glory,  ter- 
ror, agony,  but  steadily,  sanely  seeking  every 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       243 

cover,  deploying  with  skirmish  formation,  they 
go  on  and  up,  into  the  jaws  of  death,  into  the 
mouth  of  hell.  Not  a  life  is  thrown  away,  not 
a  precious  head  wasted. 

Not  fifty  yards  up  the  Russian  lookout  scouts 
them,  and  then  we  see  we  are  not  facing  a  beaten 
foe,  but  a  waiting  one.  Until  that  moment  no 
sound  came  from  the  enemy.  No  shells  chucked 
away  at  hidden  batteries,  no  rifle  ammunition 
plumped  into  the  sandbags  of  parallels,  no 
shrapnel  sent  hit-or-miss  over  the  fields  search- 
ing for  an  unseen  foe — not  any  of  that  stupid, 
wild  game  for  them.  They  have  let  the  prepa- 
ration go  on,  all  the  fuss  and  fury,  the  bombard- 
ment, the  sapping,  and  now  we  see  what  they  are 
up  to.  It  is  all  hit  with  them,  no  miss,  they  have 
no  ammunition  to  waste.  Their  backs  are  to 
the  wall.  Their  defense  is  determined,  great. 
Deadly  purpose  is  in  that  silence. 

The  sun  is  out  for  a  moment,  the  smoke  has 
lifted.  Through  my  glass  I  see  it  all  as  per- 
fectly as  though  on  a  chessboard;  the  sprawling 
blue  ants  creeping  up,  rifle-butts  dragging,  the 
line  oflicers  ahead,  the  field  behind.  Far  in  ad- 
vance of  the  squad  on  the  P  fort  a  young  lieu- 


244  PORT   ARTHUR 

tenant  is  running,  carried  out  of  himself  in 
passion,  foolish  in  zeal,  waving  his  sword.  Al- 
most fifty  yards  behind  him,  his  nearest  file-ser- 
geant lumbers  stolidly  on,  as  stolidly  as  my  two 
companions  of  the  morning  lumbered  with  their 
bags  of  rice.  At  that  moment  they  meet  what 
they  changed  their  linen  for  the  night  before. 
From  all  the  Russian  batteries,  from  silent  nooks, 
from  huge,  open  emplacements,  from  mountain 
recesses,  from  the  entire  line  of  parapets,  it 
comes — the  Russian  reply.  So  here  is  the  why 
of  that  previous  ghostly  silence.  Every  shot 
must  tell.  Bursts  directly  above  send  vitreous 
blue  shoots  of  smoke  as  of  strata  sidewise,  then 
curl  voluminously  upward,  the  edges  unfolding 
to  the  breeze;  the  deadly  shrapnel  downward 
shooting  bits  of  lead  and  steel.  Enfilading  from 
all  crests,  over  the  shoulders  of  the  slopes,  come 
shells,  plowing  the  ground,  hurling  stones  and 
fragments.  From  above  rattle  the  Norden- 
feldts  and  Maxims,  spraying  bullets  into  the 
advancing  ants  as  kerosene  is  sometimes 
sprayed  from  a  hose  nozzle  on  the  tribe  of 
real  pests. 

It  was  to  be  expected.     Not  a  man  lives.     The 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       245 

fire  ceases.  They  all  lie  prone — some  hid  in  the 
shell  holes,  some  lost  in  the  gullies,  some  face 
down  bare  on  the  open  sand.  Most  of  them  lie 
lengthwise,  their  heads  upward,  shot  apparently 
as  they  stumbled  forward.  On  the  second  slope 
in  one  place  the  legs  and  trunk  of  a  man  are 
sprawled,  armless,  headless.  An  entire  shell 
must  have  met  him  halfway.  Occasionally  the 
figures  are  huddled,  piteously  deprived  of 
action,  sending  upward  the  silent,  unanswerable 
appeal  that  death  makes.  But  most  of  them 
have  that  curious  upward  slant,  bodies  rigid,  as 
of  determined  men  hugging  the  ground.  Were 
they  bulleted  straight?  Anyway,  it  is  a  glorious 
death — this  of  the  infantry  soldier  storming  Port 
Arthur,  lifted  on  the  crest  of  the  world's  fiercest 
passion,  puffed  into  vapor  as  the  crest  of  a  storm- 
tossed  wave!  Painless,  too.  A  touch  and  all 
is  over.  But  can  they  all  be  dead,  all  of  those 
figures  slanted  curiously  upward?  There  must 
have  been  remarkable  sharpshooters  above  to 
pick  every  man  off,  for  shells  are  notoriously  ex- 
travagant of  bravado  and  bluff. 

Ten  minutes  pass — fifteen — twenty — and  only 
the  giant  shells  wheezing  through  the  sky  to  dis- 


246  PORT   ARTHUR 

tant,  unseen  marks  remind  one  that  here  is  indeed 
a  battlefield. 

Then  suddenly  those  figures  with  the  curious 
upward  slant  come  to  life.  Another  handful  of 
war  corn  is  fed  from  the  human  hopper  below. 
The  young  officer  waves  his  sword.  The  line- 
sergeant  stolidly  climbs.  The  deploying  lines 
curl  their  microbe  grip  more  firmly  into  the 
slope.  There  was  a  hitch  in  the  machine.  Now 
it  moves,  slow,  inexorable. 

The  piteously  huddled  figures  remain.  The 
comrades  go  on,  with  never  a  look  down,  never 
a  look  behind,  half-stooped,  rifle-butts  dragging, 
laboring  with  the  terrific  climb.  Ten  paces 
from  the  fresh  start,  and  that  hail  of  bursting 
steel  meets  them  again.  They  struggle  on,  per- 
haps a  hundred  feet,  perhaps  a  hundred  and 
fifty,  then  commence  dropping  one  by  one,  by  the 
dozen,  fifteen  at  a  time,  two  by  two.  They  rest 
again.  Again  the  time  drags.  Again  the  fresh 
start,  with  more  piteously  huddled  figures.  So 
it  goes,  the  hopper  below  supplying  every  loss. 

At  length  the  young  officer  pauses.  Just  for 
a  moment  he  lingers  and  then  digs  his  boots  into 
the  crater  that  one  of  those  friendly  shells  tore 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       247 

out  for  him  an  hour  before.  Without  waiting 
for  his  men,  fifty  yards  beyond  the  nearest,  he 
leaps  to  the  parapet,  reels  for  an  instant  on  the 
skyline,  then  plunges  out  of  sight.  I  never  see 
him  again.  What  must  have  been  his  fate  inside 
there,  alone,  before  his  men  came  up?  Was  he 
shot  down  as  he  entered?  Did  he  keep  the  Rus- 
sians at  bay  till  his  supports  came  up?  Dear, 
foolish  boy,  did  you  think  that,  single-handed, 
with  that  bit  of  toy  steel,  you  could  take  Port 
Arthur? 

It  seems  ages  and  ages  before  the  line-sergeant 
and  his  deploying  figures  leap  to  the  skyline,  reel 
for  an  instant,  and  disappear.  The  grist  from 
the  hopper  below  hastens  and  the  rifle-butts 
spring  from  ground  to  shoulders.  It  was  the 
first  man  who  was  needed.  Now  that  the  charm 
is  broken,  they  no  longer  skulk,  but  run  eagerly 
to  the  crater  and  tumble  in.  The  hopper  has 
fed  well-eared  corn  into  the  mill,  and  it  has 
come  out  ground  meal.  The  grits  lie  scattered 
all  along  the  slope.  Some  move.  The  most  lie 
still,  their  battle  with  cold  nights  in  exposed 
trenches  finished,  sentry  duty  done.  And  in 
many  a  thatched  cot  among  the  rice  paddies 


248  PORT    ARTHUR 

across  the  sea  the  old  hataman  will  tell  to  his 
gray  wife  how  their  boy  helped  take  Port 
Arthur,  and  both  will  make  a  little  journey  to 
the  sacred  mountain  to  assure  the  fathers  they  are 
thankful  to  have  bred  brave  stock. 

At  a  quarter-past  one  the  young  lieutenant 
started  on  his  mad  errand,  supported  by  the  same 
mechanism.  At  a  quarter-past  two  the  flag  of 
the  Rising  Sun  floated  from  both  north  corners 
of  the  P  fort.  At  a  quarter-past  three  the 
stretcher-bearers  are  on  the  slope  searching 
among  the  huddled  figures.  They  move  swiftly 
along,  turning  a  figure  over,  giving  it  a  quick 
look  and  dropping  it  with  business  precision; 
to  another,  dropping  it;  to  another,  pausing,  out 
with  the  lint,  perhaps  the  hypodermic  needle, 
perhaps  a  sip  from  the  tea  flask,  the  arms  of  one 
bearer  hastily  passing  under  the  arms  of  the  fig- 
ure of  the  other  under  the  knees,  dropping  it  on 
the  stretcher,  passing  in  and  out  among  the  shell 
holes,  down  the  hill,  while  back  on  the  slope  the 
carrion  figures  lie  with  the  slant  of  the  setting 
sun  struggling  through  the  clouds  to  flash  over 
the  bayonets  beside  them! 

Meanwhile,  over  the  rest  of  the  vast  field,  of 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       249 

which  the  P  fort  was  but  a  fragment,  the  assault 
had  been  continuing.  The  Russian  fire  had  not 
abated.  As  soon  as  they  saw  the  P  fort  was  gone 
they  turned  their  shells  into  the  redoubt  itself, 
and  cut  up  our  forces  where  they  were  seeking 
cover  in  the  very  places  their  own  shells  had 
previously  destroyed.  But  the  slopes  of  the 
other  three  forts  were  kept  just  as  hot  as  in  the 
beginning.  The  moment  the  thin  line  advanced, 
that  moment  the  hail  commenced,  and  it  ceased 
only  when  the  line  ceased;  nor  did  it  entirely 
cease  then,  for  shrapnel  was  dropped  above  the 
forms,  those  huddled  and  those  lying  curiously 
straight. 

Suddenly,  on  the  farther  slope,  where  near 
a  battalion  of  men  had  crawled  almost  two- 
thirds  of  the  way  up  the  glacis,  a  panic  seemed 
to  have  seized  them.  The  whole  crowd  ran 
down  and  to  the  right.  They  disappeared  over 
the  scruff  of  the  hill,  toward  their  own  trenches, 
brushed  off  as  a  handful  of  flies  might  be  blown 
away  from  a  heel  of  bread.  The  cowards!  to 
run  like  that  when  their  comrades  are  valiantly 
struggling  up  the  nearer  heights! 

But  no.     It  is  not  a  panic.     Halfway  to  their 


250  PORT   ARTHUR 

trenches  they  all  drop  into  the  ground.  Shell 
holes  and  gullies  swallow  them  up.  As  they  dis- 
appear the  scruff  of  the  hill  from  which  they 
ran  is  blown  into  the  air,  the  flame  shooting  from 
the  center  of  the  rocks  and  dirt,  and  the  white 
smoke  rising  above.     A  mine  has  gone  off  there. 

The  pioneer  ahead  found  the  contact  signal — 
clever  fellow — ran  back  to  the  advance  officer, 
who  led  his  men  in  their  retreat.  So  it  was  not 
a  panic,  but  a  well-ordered  movement.  Soon 
the  advance  goes  on,  up  the  nearer  angle  of  the 
slope,  the  men  deploying  carefully  as  before, 
the  hell  shooting  down  from  above,  the  hopper 
feeding  from  below.  So  I  learn  to  criticise 
nothing  on  a  field  of  battle.  Who  but  the  com- 
manding officer  can  ever  disclose  motives?  Not 
a  word  of  authentic  news  leaks  from  this  place. 
Once  the  citadel  is  down,  say  the  generals,  let 
criticism  rage.  Port  Arthur  will  have  been 
taken.  Meanwhile,  let  us  have  silence,  concen- 
tration, determination! 

Then,  under  the  middle  parapet,  I  find  a  squad 
of  men  hanging,  having  survived  the  ordeal 
below.  With  no  leader  so  headstrong  as  the 
young  officer,  they  halt  for  supports  to  go  in  and 


SCIENTIFIC    FANATICS       251 

capture  the  fort,  for  they  are  but  twenty,  or  at 
most  thirty.  No  supports  come.  The  shrapnel 
plays  over  them,  the  bullets  rain  through. 

Into  the  crater  torn  on  the  parapet  of  the  fort 
opposite  by  one  of  our  Osacca  shells,  and  which 
with  an  enfilading  fire  can  command  the  squad, 
there  marches  a  company  of  Russian  soldiers, 
four  abreast.  The  hole  accommodates  four  at  a 
time,  and  they  stand  as  if  on  parade,  an  officer  to 
the  left  rear,  his  sword  drawn,  giving  the  word 
of  command.  Still  farther  in  behind  is  another 
officer,  pistol  in  hand,  holding  the  men  to  their 
work.  They  order  arms,  prepare,  aim,  fire, 
wheel  to  the  left,  defile,  the  next  squad  takes  their 
places,  and  again  comes  this  drill  in  manual  of 
arms.  A  splendid  sight;  men  in  the  crux  of 
action  as  if  on  parade;  an  object  lesson  for  dis- 
cipline to  the  whole  Russian  army.  The  Jap- 
anese need  no  such  object  lesson.  Each  man  is 
an  individual,  though  he  is  part  of  the  machine; 
he  has  a  brain  to  think,  eyes  to  see,  legs  and  arms 
to  act.  Just  below  the  firing  squad,  within 
twenty  yards,  a  company  of  our  boys  has  crawled 
up  and  is  lying  face  down  waiting  for  the  word 
to  make  the  final  charge.     Hid  by  the  angle  of 


252  PORT   ARTHUR 

the  parapet,  neither  squad  nor  company  sees  the 
other,  and  the  Russians  above  fire  directly  over 
the  heads  of  the  Japanese  below  into  the  assault- 
ing party  on  the  opposite  slope,  distant  some  four 
or  five  hundred  yards.  When  the  last  four  have 
emptied  their  rifles,  the  crater  becomes  again 
black  with  emptiness.  Evening  is  falling.  The 
assaulting  party  creeps  on  up. 

Under  the  parapet  of  the  north  battery,  where 
the  forsaken  squad  was  left,  I  now  see  the  why 
of  the  inaction.  The  twenty  or  thirty,  in  half  an 
hour,  have  thrown  up  a  shallow  trench.  So  this 
is  the  meaning  of  the  spade  that  each  man  car- 
ries at  such  cost,  up  those  terrific  heights.  They 
are  fixing  themselves  for  the  night.  Under 
cover  of  darkness  the  supports  will  come  up,  and 
before  dawn  the  way  from  valley  to  parapet  will 
be  entirely  protected  with  trenches,  so  that  a 
whole  regiment  can  be  poured  up  for  the  final 
assault  without  losing  a  man.  As  the  price  of  it 
on  the  slope  there  lie  thousands  of  huddled 
figures. 


Chapter  Fifteen 

JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN— AN   INTERLUDE 

CHE  Itos  are  the  Smiths  of  Japan. 
There  is  one  President  of  the  Privy 
Council,  one  the  chief  naval  authority 
and  head  of  the  naval  board.  There 
are  two  generals  named  Ito  and  statistics  alone 
know  how  many  private  soldiers  are  thus  made 
still  more  common.  The  Asahi  to-day  told  of 
an  Ito  hanged  for  a  triple  murder.  In  the  ad- 
joining column  account  was  made  of  another 
Ito  decorated  by  the  Portuguese  government. 
The  reason,  not  stated,  was  that  the  king  of  that 
decrepit  monarchy,  wishing  to  assimilate  some 
stray  rays  of  good  fortune  from  this  rising  sun, 
chose  three  men  in  Japan  on  whom  to  bestow 
his  ribbons  of  mark.  These  were  the  Emperor, 
the  Emperor's  son  and  an  old  man  by  the  uni- 
versal name  of  Ito. 

A  strange  circumstance  permitted  me  to  ride 
for  an  hour  one  morning  in  a  railway  coach 
with  this  other  Ito — the  only  Ito.     Ambitious 

253 


254  PORT   ARTHUR 

of  that  smartness  which  can  save  where  any  sim- 
pleton can  spend  I  procured  a  second-class  ticket 
from  Yokohama  to  Tokyo,  a  run  that  covers 
some  twenty-eight  miles  in  twice  as  many 
minutes.  The  ticket  cost  fifty-three  sen,  and  as 
the  rate  of  exchange  for  American  gold  here 
now  is  213  you  will  see  that  the  ride  cost  less 
than  a  quarter.  I  could  have  gone  first  class 
for  seventy-four  sen,  or  ten  more  American 
cents — hardly  worth  the  saving.  Still,  it  is  more 
interesting  second  class.  Only  foreigners,  and 
Japanese  who  ape  foreigners,  ride  first  class. 

Japanese  railway  coaches  are  of  three  classes. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  experience  the  third  to 
know  it.  A  look  is  enough.  Red,  like  the  emper- 
or's, they  are  the  antithesis  of  imperial.  Only  in 
an  imperial  land,  dyed  in  the  ancient  belief  that 
certain  men  are  by  birth  superior  to  other  men, 
could  these  third-class  coaches  exist.  They  are 
for  the  common  people.  Small  as  the  dummy 
cars  of  an  intramural  railway  they  are  boxed 
off  in  sections  similar  to  continental  compart- 
ments. These  are  loaded  with  as  many  of  the 
riffraff  as  the  station  guards  can  crowd  in. 
Hard  seats  and  plain  company  with  transporta- 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     255 

tion  at  the  mere  cost  of  hauling  is  the  rule  there. 
The  fare  is  thirty  sen  (fifteen  cents).  The 
government,  which  owns  the  railway,  con- 
ducts its  business  on  the  theory  employed  by 
Japanese  merchants — sell  to  the  poor  at  cost 
and  let  the  rich  pay  the  profits. 

The  difference  between  the  first  and  second 
class  is  twofold.  One  is  the  color — white  for 
the  first  class,  blue  for  the  second.  The  accom- 
modation is  just  the  same — leather  and  plush 
upholstering  of  seats  plenty  large  enough,  with 
washstand,  toilet  and  drinking  water  handy  and 
clean  midway  of  the  car.  The  chief  difference 
is  sociologic,  tinged  with  political,  economic  and 
moral  degrees.  First  class  is  for  the  nobility, 
second  for  the  bourgeoisie.  Though  the  first- 
class  carriage  is  lawfully  open  to  anyone  pos- 
sessing seventy-four  sen,  no  second-class  Jap 
ever  dares  aspire  to  it.  So  secure  are  the  offi- 
cials in  the  morale  of  the  people  that  tickets  are 
never  examined.  You  show  your  pasteboard  at 
the  gate  as  you  enter  the  platform  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  journey,  again  as  you  leave  the  plat- 
form at  the  end,  but  not  on  the  train.  A  third- 
class  fare  could  easily  ride  in  a  first-class  coach. 


256  PORT   ARTHUR 

No  one  but  a  foreigner  would  ever  think  of  this. 
I  tried  it  one  day  and  succeeded,  getting  seventy- 
four  sen  worth  of  nobility  for  thirty  sen.  It  is 
an  axiom  that  all  foreigners  are  noble;  hence 
all  foreigners  should  travel  first  class.  Some 
day  Japan  will  really  be  civilized. 

This  morning  the  first-class  coach  was  filled 
with  London  tiles  and  Paris  frocks,  all  silked 
and  diamonded.  It  was  the  day  of  the  imperial 
garden  party  and  all  foreigners  of  note  in  Yoko- 
hama were  on  their  way  to  the  palace  in  Tokyo. 
There  was  a  crush  of  German,  French  and  En- 
glish. I  detected  one  pair  Castilian  in  suavity 
of  accent.  All  were  agog  with  gossipy  gayety. 
The  men,  sleek  on  Oriental  dining  as  fresh  pork 
packers,  plumped  seats  unusually  commodious 
quite  full  of  broadclothed  avoirdupois.  The 
women  were  agush  with  scents,  mowed  from  the 
four  quarters.  Feminine  with  suggested  lin- 
gerie, they  left  the  men  to  the  papers,  for  the 
London  mail  was  just  in,  and  toasted  some  stale 
diplomatic  scandal  whose  drift  I  vainly  strove 
to  get.  Between  silk  tiles  and  be-birded  bon- 
nets there  was  not  a  vacant  seat  left  in  the  first- 
class  coach. 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     257 

I  found  a  seat  in  the  rear  of  the  second-class 
coach,  which  was  but  half  filled.  The  occu- 
pants were  Japanese,  evidently  business  and 
professional  men  of  note,  perhaps  fifteen  all 
told.  Except  for  the  complexions,  the  upward 
slant  of  the  eyes  and  the  uniform  small  stature 
they  might  have  passed  for  the  occupants  of  the 
nine  o'clock  car  downtown  any  American  morn- 
ing. The  dress  was  the  same,  the  average  of 
intelligence  the  same.  Before  I  began  my  paper 
I  studied  each  face.  The  Japanese  countenance 
is  inscrutable.  From  coolie  to  Mikado  exists 
the  same  placid,  patient,  nearly  always  alert  ex- 
pression of  canny  indifiference.  Before  such 
uniformity,  such  hidden  power,  purpose  and 
weird  beginning  toothed  in  the  husk  of  time  the 
most  expert  western  physiognomist  is  baffled. 
The  geography  alone  of  these  humanists  of 
hardy  strife  can  be  sketched.  Of  their  history, 
legends,  poesy,  knowledge  and  aspiration  little 
may  be  said  at  the  outward  glance. 

In  the  far  corner  sat  a  man  whose  personality 
attracted  with  an  unmistakable  potency.  Sensi- 
tive to  what  psychologists  call  the  aura,  I  in- 
stinctively felt  that  he  was  a  person  of  distinc- 


258  PORT   ARTHUR 

tion,  a  distinction  genuine  in  that  it  must  be 
inherent,  for  nothing  obvious  indicated  his  dif- 
ference from  the  other  Japanese.  He  wore  a 
frock  coat  which  had  seen  use  and  a  beaver  hat, 
apparently  of  English  make,  as  it  had  a  Picca- 
dilly smugness  found  nowhere  else.  None  of  his 
countrymen  in  the  car  wore  cuflfs  like  his,  which 
were  links.  The  others  were  old-fashioned  in 
plain  roundness.  His  tie  was  ample  and  of 
heavy  silk,  four-in-hand  with  a  certain  regality 
of  flourish.  His  shoes  were  wide,  short,  homely, 
well-furnished.  Only  two  items  of  his  apparel 
were  unlike  those  of  anyone  else.  One  was  the 
pendant  from  his  watchchain,  a  superb  head  of 
polished  onyx  on  which  I  could  make  out  the 
square  and  compass  of  the  Masonic  regalia. 
The  other  was  a  button  the  size  of  an  American 
copper  cent  which  he  wore  in  his  left  lapel.  It 
looked  like  the  button  of  the  Legion  of  Honor. 
Later  I  learned  that  it  was  the  insignia  of  the 
first-class  order  of  the  Rising  Sun.  Only  twenty- 
two  men  in  the  world  have  the  right  to  wear 
that.  I  also  noticed  that  his  left  leg  was  slightly 
bent.    He  appeared  to  be  bow-legged. 

The  unknown  held  a  newspaper  in  front  of 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     259 

his  face.  When  the  train  had  been  two  minutes 
out  of  Yokohama  he  put  the  paper  down  and 
looked  out  upon  the  landscape.  Then  I  recog- 
nized the  Marquis  Ito,  who  was  born  a  poor  boy 
of  ordinary  family  in  an  imperial  land,  and  who 
is  now  known  before  the  world  as  the  father  of 
the  New  Japan. 

Some  historian  has  written  that  the  Nine- 
teenth Century  produced  four  constructive 
statesmen  of  the  first  rank;  two — Bismarck  and 
Cavour — in  the  west,  and  two — Li  Hung  Chang 
and  Ito — in  the  east.  Another  puts  him  down  as 
the  greatest  of  the  four  because  he  is  the  most 
humble. 

Of  Ito's  place  in  history  it  is  not  the  purpose 
here  to  speak.  This  is  but  the  record  of  a  chance 
hour  when  I  saw  him  this  morning  take  a  second- 
class  carriage  to  Tokyo  that  he  might  escape  the 
crowd  of  foreigners  whom  he  doubtless  felt 
would  annoy  him  with  attention,  when  he 
wishes  to  be  undisturbed.  He  has  one  sure  mark 
of  the  prophets,  that  of  being  unhonored  in  his 
own  country.  The  people  say  that  he  is  proud, 
which  is  their  interpretation  of  his  aloofness, 
and  that  he  does  things  unbecoming  a  gentle- 


26o  PORT   ARTHUR 

man.  By  this  they  mean  his  fondness  for  geisha, 
which  he  makes  no  attempt  to  conceal,  despising 
public  opinion  and  thus  calling  upon  his  head 
that  which  he  despises.  He  is  the  antithesis  of 
Disraeli,  of  whom  Gladstone  could  say  that  he 
was  the  only  public  man  in  England,  unmarried, 
who  could  live  his  maturity  without  being 
mixed  up  with  a  petticoat.  Ito  makes  no  secret 
of  his  feminine  promiscuity. 

The  Marquis  can  well  afford  to  ignore  public 
opinion.  With  what  monarch  of  what  age 
would  he  trade  places?  He  has  no  position,  no 
titles  and  no  responsibilities.  Yet  he  is  the  most 
powerful  person  in  Japan.  He  is  simply  re- 
ferred to  as  the  chief  of  the  "  genro,"  or  elder 
statesmen.  What  a  benign  reference!  He  is 
general  utility  man  for  the  government,  and 
with  that  self-effacement  which  marks  the  Jap- 
anese of  whatever  station  he  accepts  his  duties 
with  as  unswerving  a  fidelity  as  the  meanest 
gunner  at  his  post. 

When  the  Emperor  wanted  a  delicate  mis- 
sion to  Korea  executed  he  sent  Ito  with  ab- 
solute diplomatic  power.  Ito  went,  conducted 
the  business  with  entire  success  and   returned 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     261 

home  quietly.  He  has  political  enemies,  of 
course,  but  these  in  the  great  hour  of  need  stand 
aside  and  recognize  his  voice  for  what  it  is,  the 
guiding  genius  of  the  nation.  Emperor,  minis- 
ters and  generals  come  to  him  for  final  advice. 
He  is  not  bothered  with  the  routine  of  an  office 
or  the  social  duties  of  a  position.  He  lives  as 
obscurely  as  I  saw  him  this  morning  in  the 
second-class  coach,  yet  on  such  significant  occa- 
sions as  that  presentation  by  the  Portuguese 
King  he  is  the  one  man  selected. 

Ito  is  now  sixty-two  years  old.  In  this  mag- 
nificent prime  of  a  great  life  he  is  at  one  of  the 
ideal  positions  of  all  time — the  real  dictator  of 
the  glorious  future  of  a  coming  people.  What  a 
contrast  to  petty  jealousies  and  inefficient  sys- 
tems of  western  races,  who  have  so  ill  disposed 
of  men  of  similar  stamp!  At  the  same  age  Bis- 
marck was  hurling  his  thunders  of  wounded 
pride  from  Friedrichsruhe  at  the  young  Wil- 
liam. Cavour,  momentarily  anxious,  was  tot- 
tering in  an  insecure  seat;  Grant,  honored  by 
the  nations,  had  to  submit  to  the  humiliation  of 
a  defeat  at  the  hands  of  his  own  party;  Glad- 
stone, hoary  in  public  service,  wavered  between 


262  PORT   ARTHUR 

the  fires  of  an  outraged  public  and  an  obtuse 
monarch;  Cleveland  and  Harrison,  whose  serv- 
ice may  be  said  to  compare  v^ith  that  of  the 
Japanese,  at  the  very  moment  when  their  experi- 
ence, their  age  and  their  disinterestedness  would 
be  of  most  service  to  the  state,  are  relegated,  like 
broken  horses,  to  quiet  pastures.  Ito  alone  holds 
his  rightful  power — unchecked,  supreme  at  the 
helm  of  state  where  alone  the  joy  of  the  soul  of 
such  a  man  can  find  a  vent. 

His  appearance!  Of  the  cryptogram  of  that 
typical  Oriental  countenance  only  stray  ideo- 
graphs can  be  learned.  Like  them  all  it  is  in- 
scrutable. The  skin,  old  and  yellow  with  the 
impenetrable  age  and  the  hoary  toughness  of 
parchment,  lay  in  sleek,  well-grained  folds 
across  a  dome  of  brow.  The  eyes  gazed  out 
with  reserve,  incisive,  mild  from  a  flat  set- 
ting. The  iris — as  what  Japanese  is  not? — was 
brown-black,  the  white  yellow  with  the  musty 
haleness  of  yellow  marble.  The  look  was  sim- 
ple and  quiet.  Yes.  It  was  profound.  Yet  it 
was  alert. 

I  realized  that  I  was  looking  on  that  which 
was  older  than  the  saber-toothed  tiger  or  the 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     263 

mausoleums  of  time,  as  old  as  the  riddle  of  the 
Sphinx.  I  was  gazing  upon  the  oldest  thing  in 
the  world — the  spirit  of  progress. 

When  the  train  reached  the  last  station,  Shine- 
gawa,  eight  minutes  from  Shimbashi,  which  is 
to  Tokyo  what  the  Grand  Central  station  is  to 
New  York,  there  were  but  two  vacant  seats  left 
in  the  car,  one  beside  the  Marquis,  one  next 
myself.  Two  Japanese  entered.  The  first  was 
well  dressed,  foreign  style,  and,  without  look- 
ing, plumped  into  the  seat  near  the  Marquis.  I 
was,  apparently,  the  only  one  in  the  car  who 
had  recognized  the  great  man. 

The  second  newcomer  was  one  of  those  queer 
specimens  of  the  hiatus  from  old  to  new  which 
may  be  seen  in  the  streets  of  the  large  cities.  He 
wore  the  wooden  Japanese  geta  and  a  half-caste 
kimono,  but  on  his  head  was  a  dinky  derby  hat 
so  low  in  the  crown  that  the  ticket  he  had  stuck 
in  the  band  was  as  tall  as  the  hat.  He  halted  in 
the  door,  abashed.  Plainly  he  had  taken  the 
wrong  coach.  He  should  have  gone  third  class. 
He  was  in  a  land  where  caste  is  everything  and 
he  felt  out  of  his  element.  His  limp  attitude 
told  his  embarrassment  and  even  his  inscrutable 


264  PORT   ARTHUR 

face  showed  his  pain.    But  the  train  had  started 
and  he  could  not  get  out. 

Marquis  Ito  touched  the  man  on  the  arm  and 
pointed  out  the  seat  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
car.  The  poor  fellow  was  only  more  embar- 
rassed. He  looked  like  a  street  tramp  who  might 
have  stepped  into  a  Fifth  Avenue  prayer  meet- 
ing. At  one  shrewd  glance  the  Marquis  Ito 
saw  the  situation.  He  rose  from  his  seat,  offered 
it  to  the  stranger  with  a  simple  gesture  and  him- 
self walked  the  length  of  the  car  to  the  vacant 
place. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Know  a  nation's  great  men  and  you  know  the 
nation,  says  the  spirit  of  biography.  Marquis 
Ito  is  to  Japan  what  Count  Tolstoi  is  to  Russia, 
with  this  difference:  Ito  is  in  power,  Tolstoi  all 
but  exiled.  You  may  say  that  one  is  a  statesman, 
the  other  a  writer,  and  that  hence  they  are  not 
comparable.  Yet,  each  stands  before  the  world 
as  the  most  significant  intellectual  figure  among 
his  people. 

There  are  other  differences  between  the  two. 
Ito  is  silent,  Tolstoi  has  a  clarion  voice;  Ito  is 
omnipotent,  Tolstoi  powerless;  Ito  has  no  osten- 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     265 

sible  followers,  Tolstoi  counts  his  by  the  tens  of 
thousands.  Again  you  will  say  this  is  the  dif- 
ference not  between  men,  but  between  statesman 
and  prophet.  Granted.  But  a  curious  fact 
lessens  the  force  of  that  truth.  Ito  and  Tolstoi 
are  working  for  the  same  ends.  Both  seek  the 
enfranchisement  of  men.  The  true  difference 
between  them  is  this:  Ito  sinks  his  personality  in 
the  cause  he  champions,  satisfying  Tolstoi's  own 
definition  of  the  great  man  as  being  one  too 
great  to  tell  of  his  own  goodness,  while  Tolstoi 
stalks  his  stalwart  way  to  the  limelight  and 
focuses  upon  himself  the  attention  of  an  age. 

Hundreds  have  written  of  Marquis  Ito,  and 
the  only  reason  for  writing  of  him  again  is  that 
he  may  thus  be  seen  in  some  nevv^  light.  He  is 
not  the  only  interesting  man  in  Japan,  nor  the 
only  great  one,  but  he  is  certainly  a  dominating 
figure  which  fills  the  horizon  with  a  mighty 
presence.  He  is  not  popular.  The  papers  make 
only  formal  announcements  of  his  movements. 
He  passes  to  and  from  his  country  residence  and 
the  Imperial  Palace  without  escort  or  demon- 
strations. He  has  no  official  position,  Katsura 
being  the  prime  minister,  except  the  titular  one 


266  PORT   ARTHUR 

of  President  of  the  Privy  Council,  which  carries 
with  it  neither  stated  duties  nor  salary.  He  may 
be  easily  approached  and  is  seen  by  all  who  have 
the  desire.  He  is  as  free  from  pose  as  it  is  pos- 
sible for  man  to  be.  He  doesn't  chop  trees  like 
Gladstone  or  pet  great  danes  like  Bismarck  or 
walk  in  melancholy  solitude  like  Disraeli.  As 
a  picturesque  personality  he  is  disappointing. 
He  is  more  like  Ben  Harrison  leaving  the 
White  House  to  practice  law  in  Indianapolis; 
or,  imagine  Abraham  Lincoln  surviving  the 
war  and  settled  quietly  in  a  side  street  in  Wash- 
ington and  you  will  have  Marquis  Ito  as  he  is 
to-day.  Only  add  to  that  the  absolute  confidence 
of  an  all-powerful  emperor  and  the  support  of 
all  politicians,  even  those  of  life-long  enmity. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  seclusion,  in  spite  of  a  sim- 
plicity possible  only  to  men  of  the  very  first 
rank,  Ito  charms  and  holds  attention.  One  finds 
traces  of  him,  hears  accounts  of  him,  feels  his 
pervading  influence  everywhere.  When  I  told 
of  riding  in  the  second-class  coach  with  him 
from  Yokohama  to  Tokyo  the  day  of  the  im- 
perial garden  party,  I  did  not  tell  of  the  talk  I 
had  with  him  after  he  had  given  up  his  seat  to 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     267 

the  abashed  countryman  and  had  taken  one  next 
to  mine.  After  a  minute  and  when  I  saw  that 
he  was  not  occupied  I  had  the  temerity  to  say: 

"  Your  Excellency,  I  am  an  American,  and  as 
I  see  you  are  unoccupied  would  be  glad  if  you 
might  say  a  few  words  that  I  could  repeat  to 
my  countrymen."  The  never-to-be-forgotten 
way  in  which  he  turned  to  me  replying,  "  Cer- 
tainly," was  at  once  benign  and  shrewd.  There 
was  something  of  the  fatherly  old  priest  about 
him.  Yet  through  his  naive  simplicity  there 
shone  a  canny  alertness  such  as  critics  say  the 
French  landscapist,  Corot,  preserved  in  all  his 
idealist  vagaries. 

The  way  in  which  the  old  statesman  inter- 
viewed me  was  masterly,  yet  as  gracious  and 
lovable  as  any  of  the  compelling  things  pro- 
duced by  any  of  the  artists  of  these  forty  mil- 
lion. I  had  before  then  been  sent  on  newspaper 
embassies  to  famous  interviewers  of  the  west. 
Of  these  J.  Pierpont  Morgan  is  of  the  roughest 
squeeze,  ripping  the  marrow  from  a  scribe  with 
one  smash  of  his  lion  paw.  Elihu  Root  glances 
through  one  like  a  rapier,  gashing  incisive  ques- 
tions into  the  very  pith  of  the  attempt.    But  you 


268  PORT   ARTHUR 

leave  such  knights  of  power  and  purpose  dis- 
mayed and  disheartened.  You  have  been  baffled 
and  beaten,  the  door  slammed  in  your  face;  you 
have  been  caught  up  by  a  strong  wind  and  flung 
blindly  to  the  ground.  You  need  not  cry.  It  is 
only  the  wing  of  destiny  clipping  a  wee  mortal 
as  it  hurls  skyward  in  its  flight. 

Not  so  with  Ito.  He  is  all  gauzy  silk  over  his 
shimmering  steel.  I  left  him  satisfied,  enthu- 
siastic about  his  priceless  simplicity,  jubilant 
over  his  grave  dexterity,  worshipful  at  his 
fatherly  equality.  Surely,  he  was  a  great  man 
worthy  of  the  name. 

What  had  he  told  me?    Nothing. 

What  had  I  told  him?    Everything. 

Do  not  laugh,  thinking  mine  the  joy  of  one 
self-pleased  at  his  own  prattle.  No.  It  was 
sheer  delight  in  the  knowing  of  one  who  towers 
above  the  greatest  without  conscious  effort,  and 
who  reaches  to  the  lowest  without  condescen- 
sion. When  I  shook  hands  with  him  I  felt  that 
I  had  known  him  all  my  life.  When  I  saw  him 
into  his  carriage  ten  minutes  later  I  felt  that  I 
should  call  him  brother  through  all  the  lives 
that  Buddha  promises. 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     269 

How  did  he  do  it?  By  flattery?  How  vain! 
By  subtlety?  How  futile!  There  were  a  few 
details  of  person  to  note — a  slim  flex  of  the 
wrist  as  it  dangled  majestically  across  his  lap, 
the  weatherly  gray  old  look  of  battles  fought 
and  conquered  and  of  tempests  braved  and  won; 
then  always  that  inscrutable  squint  of  the  brown- 
black  eyes  with  their  yellow  whites.  For  the 
rest  you  must  seek  it  in  that  alchemy  which  the 
world,  in  spite  of  poets  and  prophets  innumera- 
ble, seems  still  to  overlook. 

•  •  •  •  • 

In  the  last  quarter  century  the  Marquis  Ito 
has  made  the  same  change  in  his  attitude  toward 
the  Japanese  house  of  peers  that  Gladstone 
made  in  his  lifetime  on  the  slavery  question.  In 
the  beginning  he  believed — or  at  least  contended 
— that  it  should  hold  but  one  allegiance — 
toward  the  Emperor.  Now  he  believes  that  it 
should  owe  a  duty  to  the  people,  as  well.  Count 
Ogura,  leader  of  the  opposing  political  party, 
has  had  the  honor  of  bringing  him  around. 
Ogura  from  the  first  has  been  a  stanch  demo- 
crat. Ito  has  been  neither  imperialist  nor  demo- 
crat; he  has  been  both.     Like  every  successful 


270  PORT   ARTHUR 

constructive  statesman  he  has  been  an  opportun- 
ist, taking  things  as  they  existed  and  improving 
them  as  he  could.  And  he  has  had  as  phenom- 
enal a  success  as  any  man  that  ever  lived.  His 
attitude  on  the  peers  question  alone  will  illus- 
trate the  manner  of  his  policy.  In  the  beginning 
he  feared  to  make  too  great  a  breach  from  the 
old  ways,  not  sure  that  either  people  or  peers 
would  stand  it.  Slowly  he  released  the  old  be- 
liefs, educating  his  countrymen,  by  other  inno- 
vations, to  the  new.  Now  when  he  finds  that 
neither  peers  nor  populace  will  stampede  at 
so  complete  a  revolution  he  forsakes  that 
consistency  which  is  the  weakness  of  little 
minds. 

Again  to-day  I  came  across  Marquis  Ito — his 
mark.  In  this  Japanese  room  made  of  a  roof 
on  pegs,  with  walls  of  paper  shutters,  and  its 
floor  ten  blanketed  mats,  there  are  three  decora- 
tions. They  belong  to  a  hotel  of  the  second 
class.  First  is  a  spray  of  lordly  wistaria,  leaning 
slender  and  dainty  from  a  majolica  vase.  Next 
is  a  bronze  statue  of  a  Chinese  prophet,  sword- 
habited  and  tiara-coiffured.  The  third  faces  me, 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN    271 

leaning  above  the  sliding  paper  doors.  It  is  a 
motto  in  Chinese  characters,  two  yards  long  and 
a  yard  wide.  At  the  left  end  is  a  signature  and 
below  the  signature  two  seals,  one  an  ochrish 
yellow,  the  other  vermilion.  For  days  that 
motto  has  stared  at  me  its  baffling  puzzle.  Were 
it  the  conventional  lettering  of  any  language  but 
that  of  the  East  I  would  not  be  so  much  con- 
cerned. But  in  the  dreamy  half  light  of  even- 
ing or  in  filmy  moonbeams  these  ideographs 
dance;  they  cry  aloud;  they  gesticulate;  they 
demand  utterance.  Each  stroke  is  masterly; 
each  separate  character  a  picture — more  a  poem! 
I  am  haunted  by  their  blazing  signals.  Are  they 
of  appeal,  or  of  warning,  or  of  blessing?  I  try  to 
study  them  out  and  fancy  I  can  make  a  tortoise  of 
the  first.  The  last  is  a  straight  dash,  the  exclaimer 
of  a  prodigious  font  of  type,  clasped  by  two 
crossbeams.  Perhaps  this  ideograph  shows  a 
man  embraced  by  welcome  arms — appropriate 
for  a  bedroom.  At  last  my  curiosity  bubbles 
over  and  I  drag  Kato  in  to  translate. 

*'  It  is  very  difficult  to  explain  the  meaning," 
he  says.  "  It  is  simple  to  a  Japanese,  but  impos- 
sible to  a  foreigner.     The  first  character  is  a 


272  PORT    ARTHUR 

tortoise,  which  to  us  is  the  symbol  of  wisdom 
and  eternity.  The  next  means  to  pray.  The  last 
shows  pilgrims  climbing  the  sacred  mountain, 
Fujiyama.  That  straight  dash  with  the 
cross-beams  is  the  crater  with  clouds  floating 
about  it." 

"  The  motto  thus  means,  *  Pray  that  you  may 
be  as  a  tortoise  on  the  sacred  mountain. ' " 

"Yes.  It  means  to  wish  eternal  wisdom  and 
happiness  to  the  dweller  in  this  room." 

"And  the  signature?" 

Kato  looks  again.  "  Hiburimo  Ito,"  he  spells. 
"The  Marquis  Ito." 

"The  Marquis  Ito,"  I  cry. 

"  There  is  only  one,"  says  he. 

"The  motto  was  given  by  him  to  the  master 
of  this  house.  See!  the  yellow  and  red  seals  are 
his.  He  did  the  work  himself.  This  is  the  mark 
of  his  brush." 

"  Is  he  a  friend  of  the  master?" 

"  No.  But  the  master  has  a  friend  who  came 
from  the  same  province,  Tosa,  in  the  south.  It 
is  called  the  Statesman  Province,  for  Ogura  and 
Komura  also  came  from  there,  while  Satsuma  in 
the  west,  from  which  Yamagata,  Oyama  and 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     273 

Hirose  came,  is  called  the  Warrior's  Province. 
This  friend  went  to  school  with  the  Marquis 
Ito  when  they  were  both  poor  and  now  that  the 
Marquis  is  rich  and  powerful  his  friend  asked 
him  for  some  motto  of  good  fortune.  And  he 
was  given  this.    It  is  a  custom." 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  Marquis  Ito  says  but  little.  Of  whatever 
subjects  he  speaks  he  illumines,  and  he  never 
hesitates  to  break  into  a  conversation  if  it  inter- 
ests him.  Some  time  ago  he  rivaled  that  un- 
known New  Yorker  who  achieved  fame  for  a 
single  toast  of  nine  words: 

"  The  new  woman,  once  our  superior,  now  our 
equal." 

It  was  at  a  reception  and  the  Marquis  inter- 
rupted a  discussion  of  the  difference  between 
American  and  Japanese  women  to  say  to  an 
American:  "When  I  marry  I  take  on  a  head 
servant;  when  you  marry  you  become  one." 

It  was  only  last  week  at  a  banquet  that  Mrs. 
Wood,  wife  of  the  United  States  Military 
Attache  at  the  legation  here,  was  asking  Baron 
Komura,  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  if  it  was 
true  that  the  Japanese  government  had  made  an 


274  PORT  ARTHUR 

appropriation  to  buy  back  the  heirlooms 
which  needy  Japanese  of  good  family  had  sold 
abroad. 

"  No,"  said  Komura,  "  we  are  too  poor.  What 
is  gone  is  gone.  It  may  be  that  some  private 
parties  are  buying  them  up,  but  not  the  govern- 
ment. I  have  heard  that  even  some  of  the  tem- 
ple relics,  their  most  prized  bronzes  and 
lacquers,  have  gone.  The  people  forsake  the 
old  gods,  the  priest  gets  poor,  the  curio  man 
comes  with  gold  and  away  go  the  musty  monu- 
ments of  centuries." 

At  this  moment,  with  an  almost  sinister  frown 
the  Marquis  Ito  interrupted.  "What's  that?" 
he  called.  The  conversation  was  repeated.  The 
inscrutable  eyes  closed,  then  he  opened  them 
with  a  squint  and  said  to  Mrs.  Wood: 

"  America  can  have  all  the  relics  Japan  has — 
her  bronzes,  gilts,  ivories,  lacquers,  silks,  her 
temples,  everything  but  the  land  and  the  people 
— for  gold.    We  want  American  gold." 

"  Couldn't  America  buy  Japan?"  asked  Mrs. 
Wood,  playfully. 

The  old  man  mused  a  while.  Finally  he 
said: 


JAPAN'S  GRAND  OLD  MAN     275 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  America  has  the  enter- 
prise to  build  a  ship  large  enough  to  float  our 
island  to  the  Golden  Gate  and  anchor  it  there, 
but  if  you  do  that  I  bid  America  beware  that  we 
do  not  annex  her!" 


Chapter  Sixteen 

THE   COST   OF   TAKING   PORT   ARTHUR 

CORT  ARTHUR  stood  formidable 
and  haughty  on  the  night  of  Febru- 
ary 8th,  when  Togo  first  saluted  it 
with  his  turret  six-inchers.  That 
salute  of  the  shell  was  lengthy  and  costly.  For 
ten  months  it  kept  up  from  nearly  seven  hundred 
guns,  approximately  two  hundred  and  forty  in 
the  navy  and  three  hundred  and  fifty  in  the  army. 
Each  gun  fired  its  weight  in  metal  twenty  times 
over.  About  two  thousand  tons  of  bursting  shell 
went  into  that  proud  and  mighty  citadel,  cor- 
doned with  its  cunningly  hung  and  ingeniously 
intrenched  forts.  Each  firing  cost  an  average  of 
twenty-four  gold  dollars.  Thus  the  moneyed 
treasure  hurled  against  the  fortress  exceeded 
thirty  millions.  And  men — but  of  the  human 
later. 

What  bait  lured  and  what  force  repelled  that 

money  and  blood?    To  comprehend  we  must 

276 


TAKING   PORT  ARTHUR    277 

review  briefly  Port  Arthur,  its  fortification,  and 
its  siege.  Nature  there  was  the  greatest  ally 
the  Russians  ever  had.  Topographically,  Port 
Arthur  was  fitted  with  a  defense  that  taught 
tricks  to  the  most  skillful  engineers.  Two 
ranges  of  hills,  almost  concentric,  surrounded 
the  harbor.  The  crests  of  these  were  broken  by 
a  series  of  successive  conical  elevations.  Here 
was  a  suggestion  that  the  mightiest  engineer — 
an  Archimedes  or  a  Michelangelo — would 
have  seized.  The  Italians  who  helped  the  Rus- 
sians in  laying  out  their  defenses,  taking  these 
concentric  ranges  for  the  primary  grand  scheme, 
ran  completely  about  the  city  two  concentric 
lines  of  fortifications.  Massive  masonry  forts 
were  built  on  the  shoulders  of  the  high  summits, 
and  were  connected  by  continuous  defensive 
works.  Hugging  the  city  close,  distant  from 
one  thousand  yards  to  a  mile  and  a  half,  lay  the 
inner  line  of  permanent  defense,  whose  back- 
bone was  an  old  Chinese  wall,  broadened,  deep- 
ened, and  loopholed.  Beyond,  and  filling  the 
interstices  between  these  forts,  were  semi-perma- 
nent works.  The  forts  were  so  related  to  each 
other  that  they  gave  mutual  support.     Each  one 


278  PORT    ARTHUR 

was  dominated  by  fire  from  neighboring 
heights,  and  it  often  happened  that  the  Japanese 
seized  positions,  which,  though  untenable  for 
the  Russians,  they  were  unable  to  hold  them- 
selves. The  slopes  'of  the  hills  were  steep. 
Also,  they  were  smooth  and  free  from  cover. 
To  rush  the  works  charges  had  to  be  made  over 
a  broad  glacis,  swept  by  the  shrapnel,  machine 
gun,  and  rifle  fire  of  the  defenders.  Should 
the  assault  survive  the  scientific  deathtraps  of 
this  danger  zone,  the  valiant  few  were  con- 
fronted by  massive  masonry  parapets,  through 
which  they  could  not  force  an  entrance. 

This  wonderful  network  of  fortifications, 
strong  by  nature,  strong  by  virtue  of  the  skill 
and  care  with  which  it  had  been  built,  was  dis- 
tinguished from  all  previous  defensive  works  by 
the  fact  that  here  for  the  first  time  were  used  all 
those  terrible  agencies  of  war  which  science  in 
the  last  century  has  rendered  available.  There 
were  steel  shields  to  protect  skirmishers, 
machine  guns,  smokeless  powder,  artillery  of 
high  velocity  and  great  range,  high  explosive 
shells,  the  magazine  rifle,  the  telescopic  sight, 
giving  marvelous  accuracy  of  fire;  the  range- 


TAKING    PORT    ARTHUR      279 

finder,  giving  instantaneously  the  exact  distance 
of  the  enemy;  the  searchlight,  the  telegraph  and 
the  telephone,  starlight  bombs,  barbed-wire  en- 
tanglements, and  a  dozen  other  diabolic  inven- 
tions, the  sum  of  which,  allied  to  this  stupendous 
fortification  of  nature  by  man,  enabled  the  mili- 
tary authorities  of  the  world  to  pronounce  upon 
Port  Arthur  that  superlative  word,  impreg- 
nable. 

Reducing  the  scale  of  this  fortress,  we  might 
see  in  miniature  its  intricate  construction  if  we 
looked  upon  the  hair-clippers  of  a  barber.  The 
forts  were  the  teeth,  the  murderous  scientific 
apparatus  the  death  blades  of  this  monstrous 
clipper.  For  five  months  they  shaved  clean 
everything  that  approached  them. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  operations,  in  the  War 
Office  at  Tokyo,  the  plan  of  campaign  against 
Port  Arthur  was  laid  out  as  all  Japanese  cam- 
paigns are  laid  out — by  the  General  Staff.  With 
a  passion  for  detail  and  a  mania  for  precision, 
the  fortress  was  plotted  and  the  operations 
against  it  mathematically  separated  into  stages. 
Now  that  Port  Arthur  calls  on  history  for  an 
answer,  the  exact  nature  of  this  plan,  and  how 


28o  PORT   ARTHUR 

rigidly  it  was  adhered  to,  may  be  for  the  first 
time  disclosed. 

There  were  to  be  four  stages  in  the  reduction 
of  the  fortress.  The  work  was  divided  into 
stages,  because  the  Japanese  are  so  practical  that 
they  must  plainly  see  on  paper  what  they  project. 
They  live  by  system.  They  have  reduced  ac- 
complishment to  a  problem  of  economics. 
They  believe  that  the  most  successful  man  is  he 
who  makes  the  closest  analysis.  It  was  fore- 
ordained that  they  would  be  successful,  for  they 
analyzed  Port  Arthur. 

The  first  of  the  four  stages  laid  out  com- 
prehended the  capture  of  the  Chinese  wall, 
which  is  the  main  line  of  permanent  Russian 
land  defense  on  the  east,  and  its  protection  of 
twelve  forts;  three  permanent,  four  semi-per- 
manent, and  three  redoubts.  The  second  stage 
comprehended  the  taking  of  Etzeshan  and  Anz- 
ushan  (the  Table  and  Chair  forts),  which  are 
considered  the  keys  to  the  west  defenses,  with 
the  lunettes,  batteries,  and  redoubts  which  formed 
their  out  and  in  works.  The  third  stage  com- 
prehended the  capture  of  the  town  of  Port 
Arthur,  and  the  great  sea  forts  located  on  the 


282  PORT   ARTHUR 

Tiger's  Tail  and  Golden  Hill.  The  fourth  and 
final  stage,  in  which  it  was  expected  that  the  des- 
peration of  defense  would  mount  to  the  height 
of  a  fierce  guerrilla  warfare,  comprehended  the 
taking  of  the  tip  of  the  peninsula,  called  Liao- 
tishan. 

The  first  stage  was  the  most  vital  military 
move,  for  once  accomplished  it  meant  the 
crumbling  of  the  Russian  line,  though  the  de- 
fense might  linger  after  that  for  months. 

The  second  stage  was  politically  the  great 
essential,  for  not  until  it  was  well  accomplished 
could  the  world  be  told  that  Port  Arthur  had 
fallen.  Through  this  Chair  fort  the  town  was 
taken  ten  years  ago,  but  now  it  rises  so  formid- 
ably that  the  Japanese  have  not  even  dared  to 
attack  it.  It  looks  like  the  crater  of  an  extinct 
volcano,  bulwarked  with  loose  sand  at  a  seventy- 
five  degree  angle,  so  that  on  assault  men  sink  to 
their  knees  and  lie  inert  under  merciless  fire. 
"  203 "  was  but  a  semi-permanent  outwork  of 
this  Chair  fort,  which  dominated  it. 

Such  was  the  project.  Execution  needed  only 
Stoessel  and  his  defenders  to  make  the  plan  of 
the  Tokyo  War  Office  precise.     They  failed  on 


TAKING    PORT   ARTHUR      283 

the  defense  of  the  last  three  stages,  so  that 
when  the  Japanese  accomplished  the  first  stage, 
Port  Arthur  fell.  Nogi's  original  intention  was 
to  pierce  the  Russian  right  center  through  the 
line  of  forts  from  Keekwanshan  and  Ehrlung- 
shan,  while  he  demonstrated  on  the  left,  where 
lie  "  203  "  and  Etzeshan.  He  pursued  this  plan 
to  the  end  and  was  consistent  through  a  bitter, 
costly  half-year.  He  planned  to  enter  Port 
Arthur,  through  Keekwanshan  and  Ehrlung- 
shan,  on  August  21st.  He  entered  Port  Arthur 
through  Keekwanshan  and  Ehrlungshan,  Jan- 
uary 2d — four  months  and  a  half  late — but  he 
got  there,  as  he  originally  planned. 

It  was  predicted  that  if  the  Russian  line  could 
be  broken  at  any  one  point,  the  fortress  would 
fall.  No  one  but  the  mathematical  heads  in  the 
War  Office  took  stock  in  the  idea  of  the  four 
grand  stages.  But  Nogi  and  his  generals  held 
to  the  plan  by  foreseeing  beyond  the  actual  de- 
fense, by  checkmating  it  at  every  point  that 
might  possibly  have  bearing  upon  these  various 
stages,  and  as  a  chess  player  surveys  every  possi- 
bility of  defeat,  counting  on  consummate 
ability    in    the    opponent.     Then    they    finally 


284  PORT   ARTHUR 

got  what  they  were  after,  even  before  they 
expected  it. 

Had  Nogi  met  what  his  foresight  led  him  to 
expect — a  consistently  determined  defense — his 
capture  of  Ehrlungshan  and  Keekwanshan  in 
the  last  days  of  December  would  have  left  him 
only  with  one-quarter  of  his  work  finished.  But 
as  a  general  giving  full  credit  to  his  adversary, 
he  could  not  count  on  the  Russian  failure  in  the 
two  vital  respects  which  spelled  the  final  surren- 
der. These  two  vital  things  were  ammunition 
and  morale.  If  the  Russians  had  had  plenty  of 
ammunition  and  had  been  pervaded,  rank  and 
file,  with  Stoessel  spirit,  they  would  have  fought 
on  while  they  held  Anzushan  and  Etzeshan,  and 
all  of  that  great  chain  of  forts  from  Golden 
Hill  through  to  Liaotishan. 

The  siege  of  Port  Arthur  presents  many 
phases — military,  political,  ethnical,  scientific, 
spectacular,  and  dramatic — in  short,  all  the 
great  vital  phases  of  human  life.  About  the 
siege  of  Sebastopol  the  libraries  hold  thirty  vol- 
umes— about  Plevna  twenty.  Port  Arthur  sur- 
passes both.  Politically,  vaster  interests  were 
at  5take.       In    a  military  sense  the  operations 


TAKING    PORT   ARTHUR      285 

were  more  extensive;  so  we  cannot  hope  to 
cover  the  ground  delved  into  by  hundreds  of 
writers  about  former  sieges. 

We  can  but  pick  the  grand  salient  features 
that  seared  themselves  into  the  memory  of  the 
few  who  lived  through  it.  Of  these  the  chief 
is  the  proof  that  human  tenacity  and  valor  are  as 
great  to-day  as  at  any  time  in  the  world's  history. 
The  great  guns  at  Port  Arthur  were  marvelous. 
They  impressed  one  with  that  power  seen  in  a 
jungle  of  elephants,  yet  they  were  sensitive  and 
delicate  as  a  little  girl.  The  battling  under 
searchlights  was  as  grand  a  spectacle  as  the 
imagination  can  devise.  The  ingenuity  and 
precision  of  the  movements  outlined  by  generals 
bred  in  all  the  duplicity  and  culture  of  the 
schools,  and  reared  through  every  vicissitude  of 
camp  and  march,  were  astounding.  The  in- 
genious, quiet  deviltry  of  the  engineer  puzzled 
the  brain.  But  all  would  have  been  useless 
without  the  private  soldier.  The  boy  in  khaki 
— he  did  the  trick. 

And  after  all  the  story  of  Port  Arthur  has 
been  thrashed  out,  its  questions  settled,  that  sol- 
dier of  Nippon,  with  a  calm,  plain  face,  stamped 


286 


PORT   ARTHUR 


with  the  soil,  rises  supreme,  saluting  his  equally 
glorified  yokel  brother  from  the  Trans-Baikal. 

Shells  make  a  lot  of  noise  and  led  the  hotel 
correspondents  many  miles  away  to  see  blood  on 
the  face  of  the  moon,  but  at  Port  Arthur  their 
damage  was  out  of  all  proportion  to  their  cost. 
Only  one  out  of  four  hundred  of  the  Russian 
shells  was  effective  in  the  Japanese  camp.  It  is 
not  likely  that  more  than  twice  that  ratio — 
namely,  one  out  of  two  hundred — would  cover 
the  proper  statistics  of  Japanese  effectiveness. 
Of  course,  the  Japanese  had  the  great  advantage 
of  a  plain  target. 

Bullets  did  the  harm.  There  were  about 
forty  million  discharged  during  the  five  months 
of  the  siege,  and  forty  million  bits  of  steel  flying 
with  cutting  velocity  are  bound  to  hit  some 
hearts  in  Japan  and  other  hearts  in  Russia.  The 
weight  of  the  total  number  of  men  killed  at  Port 
Arthur  on  both  sides,  if  compared  with  the 
weight  of  the  steel  sent  from  the  large  and  small 
guns  of  both  armies,  will  show  that  the  death  of 
every  soldier  cost  his  weight  in  metal. 

But  the  deaths  were  not  frightful.  It  was 
life  that  was  frightful.    In  the  contested  redoubt 


TAKING    PORT   ARTHUR      287 

of  the  Eternal  Dragon,  where  the  Japanese 
drove  the  tip  of  their  wedge  into  the  Russian 
right  center  in  mid- August,  and  which  they  held 
against  numberless  sorties  for  three  months,  the 
Japanese  soldiers  lived  in  conditions  that  would 
be  impossible  to  men  of  any  other  race.  The 
enemy  was  within  forty  yards  of  them  on  three 
sides.  Their  way  back  to  their  base  of  supplies 
was  across  half  a  mile  of  valley,  every  yard  of 
which  was  swept  by  the  enemy's  fire.  Few 
prisoners  were  taken  on  either  side.  Through 
the  four  chief  months  of  the  siege  only  seventy- 
one  Russians  were  captured,  and  the  number  of 
Japanese  found  alive  in  Port  Arthur  at  the  time 
of  its  surrender  was  less  than  one  hundred. 

There  are  a  few  instances  on  record  of 
mutual  devotion  between  the  enemies,  which  is 
vastly  heightened  by  the  other  frightful  record 
of  mutual  unswerving  hatred.  One  day  a  Rus- 
sian sergeant  appeared  in  front  of  a  Japanese 
trench,  bearing  over  his  shoulder  a  wounded 
Japanese  lieutenant,  whom  he  had  picked  up 
with  a  shattered  leg  under  the  parapet  of  one  of 
his  own  forts.  This  sergeant  had  been  on  the 
point  of  thrusting  his  bayonet  through  the  brain 


288  PORT    ARTHUR 

of  the  Japanese  lieutenant,  when  the  other  man 
moved,  moaned,  opened  his  eyes,  and  from  his 
pocket  took  a  bit  of  biscuit,  offering  it  to  the 
other.  The  Russian  dropped  his  bayonet, 
bound  the  shattered  leg,  hoisted  the  Japanese  to 
his  shoulders,  and  walked  by  moonlight  that 
night  to  the  opposing  trenches. 


Chapter  Seventeen 

A   CONTEMPORARY    EPIC 

^^fe^HAT  Port  Arthur  would  fall  on  the 
m  ^  ^  2ist  of  August  was  believed  by  every 
^^^^^  man  in  the  Japanese  army;  the  island 
nation  was  sure  of  it;  the  world 
thought  it  certain.  And  the  Japanese  did 
try.  They  lacked  neither  the  bravery,  nor  the 
numbers,  nor  the  skill.  They  failed  because 
Nature  stood  in  their  way.  Nature  built  the 
mountains,  and  without  the  mountains  the  Rus- 
sians could  not  have  defended  Port  Arthur  as 
they  did.  The  forts  were  so  arranged  that  each 
was  commanded  by  two  or  three  others,  and 
some  by  ten  or  twelve.  One  taken,  the  others  im- 
mediately concentrated  fire  there  and  made  it 
untenable.  One  thing  only  could  be  done — take 
all  the  forts  simultaneously.  Since  there  were 
seventeen  permanent,  forty-two  semi-permanent, 
and  eighteen  improvised  fortifications,  two  miles 
of  fortified  Chinese  wall,  and  a  triple  line  of 
trenches  eight  and  a  half  miles  long,  defended 

by  a  stubborn  foe,  this  was  impossible. 

289 


2go  PORT    ARTHUR 

"Impossible?"  That  is  an  English  word. 
The  Japanese  do  not  understand  it.  ''You  are 
expected  to  do  the  impossible  things,"  read  the 
fir^  imperial  order  their  troops  received.  They 
have  done  impossible  things.  So  have  the  Rus- 
sians done  impossible  things.  The  ordeal  has 
raised  the  story  of  the  siege  of  Port  Arthur  into 
an  epic.  Without  the  perspective  of  Troy,  it 
has  some  of  Troy's  grandeur.  The  glory,  to  us, 
is  that  we  have  touched  shoulders  with  an  age 
that  has  produced  men  as  willing  as  any  ever 
have  been  to  fight  nobly  and  die  heroically. 

Skill  and  bravery  had  their  value,  of  course, 
but  to  take  Port  Arthur  a  man  was  needed — a 
man  like  Grant,  who  could  fight  it  out  on  one 
line  all  summer  and  all  winter.  This  man  was 
Nogi;  with  a  face  parchment-crinkled,  brown 
like  chocolate,  with  beard  gray,  shaded  back  to 
brown  where  it  met  the  skin,  so  that  he  seemed 
a  monotone  in  sepia,  with  eyes  small  and  wide 
apart,  perfect  teeth,  tiny,  regular  nose,  and  a 
beautiful  dome  of  a  head  flaring  out  from  the 
temples  in  tender  and  eloquent  curves.  He 
stands  five  feet  ten,  unusually  tall  for  a  Japa- 
nese, showing  the  loose  power  of  a  master  in  his 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC     291 

joints  and  in  that  mighty  jowl  shaded  by  the 
gray-brown  beard.  He  has  had  to  weather 
fierce  storms  of  public  indignation  in  Japan  for 
two  reasons — because  he  did  not  take  Port  Ar- 
thur as  scheduled;  and  because  he  sacrificed  so 
many  lives.  Turn  over  the  pages  of  our  history 
and  read  the  story  of  Grant's  campaign  from  the 
Wilderness,  through  Cold  Harbor  and  Spottsyl- 
vania,  to  Petersburg  and  Richmond,  and  you 
will  read  the  story  of  Nogi's  campaign  against 
Port  Arthur.  In  northern  Virginia  the  mighty 
battle-ax  cut  down  the  keen  Damascene  sword. 
On  the  Liaotung  Thor's  hammer  smashed  the 
straying  fasces  of  an  overripe  empire.  The 
North  cried  out  that  the  man  who  felt  himself 
an  agent  of  Destiny  in  conquering  northern  Vir- 
ginia was  a  butcher;  just  so  Japan  cried 
"butcher"  against  the  iron  man  who  reduced 
Port  Arthur. 

In  1894  Nogi  saw  the  Chinese  besieged  and 
Port  Arthur  taken  by  a  feint.  He  saw  the  big 
Japanese  demonstration  then  made  against  the 
front  while  the  bulk  of  the  army  slipped  along 
the  coast  to  the  west  and  south,  enveloping  the 
enemy's  left  wing  and  driving  the  silly  Chinese 


292  PORT   ARTHUR 

into  a  net  where  they  were  caught  fast  under 
the  great  forts,  which  speedily  fell.  Again,  ap- 
parently, the  same  strategy  was  about  to  be 
repeated.  But  instead  of  making  the  real  at- 
tack in  the  rear  of  the  Russian  left  flank,  Nogi 
made  only  a  demonstration  there,  where  "  203  " 
is  on  the  west,  and  drove  his  straight,  hard  blow 
into  the  eastern  line  of  permanent  land  defense. 
To  pierce  the  Russian  right  center,  enfilade  its 
left  flank,  and  stand  Port  Arthur  on  end — this 
was  the  plan.  Gloriously  it  was  attempted, 
gloriously  it  failed.  Regiment  after  regiment 
went  in,  regiment  after  regiment  went  down. 
Corpses  lay  eight  deep  in  the  creek  which  ran 
red  to  the  sea. 

This  grand  assault — the  first — began  August 
19th.  For  seven  days  and  nights  without  cessa- 
tion the  battle  raged,  in  the  vain  endeavor  to 
pierce  that  right  center.  It  is  said  that  the  Japa- 
nese are  all  heroes — that  none  are  cowards. 
Some  are  also  sensible.  There  was  the  Eighth 
Regiment,  which,  when  ordered  in  to  the  assault 
where  the  regiment  before  it  had  been  swept 
down,  sent  back  through  its  commanding  officer 
the  word  that  the  way  was  impossible.     This 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC     293 

word  was  so  new  to  the  Brigade-General  that  he 
ordered  the  regiment  to  the  rear  for  fatigue 
duty,  the  worst  punishment  that  can  come  to 
Japanese  soldiers  in  an  army  where  there  are  no 
guard-houses.  Another  regiment,  the  immortal 
Ninth,  was  ordered  to  cross  the  field  to  the  foot 
of  the  slope  on  which  lay,  dead  and  dying,  many 
of  the  men  of  the  regiment  which  had  gone  be- 
fore. The  Colonel,  Takagagi,  surveying  the 
task  set  for  his  regiment,  sent  back  a  report  that 
it  was  not  feasible.  The  Brigade-General  Ichi- 
nobe  replied  hotly  that  one  regiment  was 
enough  to  take  one  battery.  Takagagi  stepped 
out  of  the  ravine,  in  which  he  had  been  seeking 
shelter,  at  the  head  of  his  command.  Before,  he 
had  been  marching,  as  colonels  usually  do,  in 
the  rear,  while  his  line  officers  led  the  advance. 
Now,  he  leaped  forward  up  the  slope,  out  in 
front  of  his  men.  A  dozen  paces  from  the  ravine 
he  fell  with  four  bullets  through  his  breast.  The 
Lieutenant-Colonel  took  up  the  lead  and  was 
shot  a  few  yards  farther  on.  The  majors  were 
wiped  out.  Every  captain  but  one  went  down. 
The  last  Captain,  Nashimoto,  in  charge  of  D 
Company,  found  himself,  at  length,  under  the 


294  PORT   ARTHUR 

Chinese  Wall  with  seventeen  men.  Looking 
down  upon  the  shell-swept  plain,  protected  for 
the  moment  from  the  sharpshooters  above,  with 
that  handful  of  heroes,  a  mile  and  a  half  in  ad- 
vance of  the  main  body  of  the  Japanese  army, 
he  grew  giddy  with  the  success  of  his  attempt. 
Of  a  sudden  he  concluded  that  he  could  take 
Port  Arthur  with  his  seventeen  men.  He  started 
in  to  do  it.  There  was  only  the  wall  ahead — the 
wall  and  a  few  machine-guns — beyond,  the  city 
itself — a  five  minutes'  run  would  have  brought 
him  to  the  citadel.  He  scaled  the  wall  and  fell 
across  it — his  back  bullet-broken.  Eight  of  his 
men  got  over,  scaling  the  height  beyond,  called 
Wangtai  or  the  Watch  Tower,  a  place  to  which 
the  Russian  generals  formerly  rode  on  horse- 
back to  survey  the  battlefield.  On  this  slope,  for 
three  months,  in  full  sight  of  both  armies,  the 
eight  lay  rotting.  The  Russians  referred  to  them 
as  "The  Japanese  Garrison." 

This  was  the  high  tide  of  the  advance  made 
in  August.  Nogi  paid  a  frightful  price  to  learn 
his  terrible  lesson — that  he  could  not  so  quickly 
wipe  out  a  foe  thus  allied  with  Nature.  The  les- 
son cost  him  twenty-five  thousand  men.    After 


A    CONTEMPORARY   EPIC     295 

the  first  ghastly  assault  he  sat  down  with  his 
army  and  went  sensibly  and  slowly  at  the  enor- 
mous task.  Instead  of  storming  Port  Arthur 
with  his  army,  he  and  Kodama  saw  that  he  must 
dig  into  it.  Realizing  that  Nogi  was  sure  to 
pass  into  the  fortress  through  the  earth  where 
he  had  failed  to  enter  above  ground,  Kodama 
might  well  have  chuckled  as  he  said  that  he  held 
the  besieged  city  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

Yet  both  Kodama  and  Nogi  thoroughly  real- 
ized what  they  had  to  face.  The  permanent 
forts  of  the  Russians'  were  built  on  the  advan- 
tageous shoulders  that  projected  two-thirds  of 
the  way  down  the  slopes.  The  mountains,  for- 
tunately for  the  Russians,  were  so  situated  that, 
though  irregular  in  detail,  yet  their  line  formed 
a  complete  semicircle  enveloping  the  city.  Mak- 
ing use  of  these  natural  advantages,  they  were 
able  to  build  a  grand  fortress  with  seventeen 
locks,  for  every  one  of  which  they  held  the  key. 
The  Japanese  might  spring  one  of  the  locks,  but 
the  fortress  could  be  instantly  closed  with  any 
or  all  of  the  other  sixteen.  Each  depression  be- 
tween the  main  shoulders  of  the  mountains  was 
used  for  the  emplacement  of  a  battery.     Bat- 


296  PORT   ARTHUR 

teries  and  forts  were  connected  with  barbed- 
wire  entrenchments,  and  the  glaces  were  made 
sheer  and  slippery.  Some  were  formed  of  con- 
crete, some  were  built  crater-like  of  a  sliding 
sand,  so  that  a  man  advancing  found  himself 
slipping  to  the  knees  and  quagmired.  Around 
the  great  forts  moats  of  unknown  depth  and 
width  were  built.  In  these  moats  caponieres 
were  placed  to  enfilade  daring  assaulters.  Some 
of  the  barbed  wire  was  electrically  charged,  so 
that  men  attempting  to  cut  it  with  nippers  were 
electrocuted.  Down  the  forward  slopes  of  the 
mountains  mines  were  sunk  in  the  earth;  some 
were  exploded  by  contact  with  an  electric  but- 
ton on  the  surface,  others  by  direct  contact  from 
some  tripping  man  as  he  passed  over  the  spot. 
Around  two  of  the  forts  torpedoes  taken  from  the 
ships  were  buried,  and  their  finlike  stems  were 
turned  into  contact  flanges  projecting  from  the 
earth.  All  these  defenses  were  connected  with  a 
network  of  covered  ways;  in  two  places  deep 
tunnels  ran  from  fort  to  fort,  and  from  all  of  the 
principal  forts  back  to  the  Chinese  Wall  was  a 
deep  tunnel.  Behind  the  wall  lay  machine 
guns,    the    most    deadly    weapons    in    modern 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC     297 

warfare,  sprinkling  bullets  as  a  hose  sprinkles 
water. 

The  very  names  of  these  forts  characterized 
the  forms  of  the  granite  of  which  they  were  built 
and  out  of  which  they  rose.  The  Eternal  Dra- 
gon, the  Two  Dragons,  the  Chair,  the  Table, 
the  Lion's  Mane,  and  that  flippant  old  rooster, 
who  is  the  grimmest  and  sauciest  of  them  all, 
the  Cock's  Comb,  stood  out  defiant  in  Chinese 
hoariness. 

To  get  across  the  plain,  up  the  slopes,  and 
into  those  forts  by  digging  trenches  and  tun- 
nels was  the  problem,  and  the  Japanese  were 
able  to  solve  it.  In  those  two  months  one  hun- 
dred men  at  a  time  did  the  job,  for  only  that 
number  could  work  at  once  in  the  tunnels.  Often 
shells  found  them  out;  rifle-fire  harassed  them 
every  hour.  The  loss  was  many  companies,  but 
they  never  lacked  the  one  hundred  to  do  the 
work,  always  by  night,  always  silently;  crawl- 
ing through  the  night,  pick  and  shovel  in  hand, 
came  that  antlike  hundred,  the  individuals  con- 
stantly varying,  as  figures  in  a  kaleidoscope 
where  death  is  at  the  handle,  but  never  quitting 
its  terrible  task. 


298  PORT   ARTHUR 

In  darkness  a  company  begins  its  labor  in 
unison.  Guided  by  clever  engineers,  the  picks 
advance  through  the  blackness;  the  shovelers 
smartly  after.  The  Russian  searchlight  swings 
menacingly  to  play  upon  the  little  group.  A 
shell  hurtles  in.  A  dozen  men  fall,  some  never 
to  rise  again.  Up  with  the  first  aid,  down  with 
the  stretchers,  to  the  rear  with  the  victims.  Ad- 
vance another  squad — on  goes  the  hundred.  So 
for  two  months — and  then  through  the  finished 
trenches  the  rest  of  the  army  walked  impudently 
in  the  broad  sun,  laughing  at  those  useless  bul- 
lets singing  so  saucily  overhead. 

The  plain  lay  overripe  with  harvests,  but  not 
a  living  thing  was  on  its  surface.  The  autumn 
sun  hung  indolent  and  golden.  Blackened  vil- 
lages were  deserted.  Among  the  chain  of  forts, 
bristling  with  cannon,  there  lay  one  with  its 
nearest  side  completely  honeycombed.  All  the 
other  forts  were  silent  and  bare  on  their  near 
sides.  That  honeycomb  was  made  by  the  grid- 
ironing  of  Japanese  trenches.  Between  it  and 
the  line  of  mountains,  parallel  to  the  Russians 
on  the  north,  the  ground  was  ridged  with 
mounds  of  fresh  earth,  as  if  some  gigantic  mole 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC     299 

had  zigzagged  across  the  plain.  From  neither 
army  was  there  the  slightest  evidence  of  life, 
except  that  between  the  two  lay  that  telltale 
fresh  earth,  as  though  a  huge  animal  had  been 
busy  in  the  night.  Yet,  behind  the  northern  par- 
allel range,  the  distance  of  a  rifle-shot  from  the 
Russians  in  Port  Arthur,  ominously  silent,  mon- 
strously at  work  in  preparation,  was  the  Japa- 
nese army — siege-mortars  cocking  their  twenty 
tons  of  steel  on  solid  masonry  as  a  Mauser  pistol 
cocks  on  a  man's  fist;  monster  naval  guns,  rakish 
devils,  buried  in  the  earth,  with  frightful  noses 
menacing  the  blue;  howitzers  perched  on  peaks; 
lines  of  transport  laden  with  rice  and  biscuit; 
hospitals  brilliant  as  the  sunlight  and  quiet  as 
its  stillness;  regiments  of  men  receiving  instruc- 
tions— how  to  escape  beri-beri,  how  to  keep 
nightdews  from  the  rifle-barrels,  how  to  bind  a 
fractured  leg,  how  to  scupper  an  adversary  in  a 
hand-to-hand  fight — but  on  the  field  of  battle, 
on  the  opposite  sides  of  which  the  opposing 
hosts  were  held  like  hounds  in  leash,  there  was 
nothing  human — only  silence,  beauty,  sub- 
limity. 

From  September  19th  to  the  25th  occurred 


300  PORT   ARTHUR 

what  is  known  as  the  second  assault,  although 
it  might  more  properly  be  described  as  a  recon- 
naissance in  force.  As  an  assault  it  failed.  Then 
on  the  last  day  in  October  the  war-demon  awoke 
again  to  his  full  ferocity.  Where  the  twenty- 
five  thousand  had  been  lost  in  August,  a  divis- 
ion could  now  be  poured  right  up  to  the  para- 
pets of  the  Russian  forts  without  losing  a  man. 
Coast-defense  guns  had  been  brought  from 
Japan  to  battle  against  the  Russia  coast-defense 
guns,  which  had  been  turned  landward.  The 
Japanese  had  hauled  their  guns  by  hand,  eight 
hundred  men  to  a  gun,  through  mud,  up  the 
mountains,  in  the  dark,  under  fire,  and  had 
placed  them  in  silence  on  solid  concrete  founda- 
tions. But  after  they  had  crossed  the  valley  the 
Japanese  still  had  a  frightful  obstacle  to  face. 
There  was  but  one  way  to  get  to  the  forts — up 
the  slopes.  Every  inch  of  these  was  commanded 
by  guns  trained  carefully  through  three  months 
of  actual  use  against  a  real  foe  and  through  four 
previous  years  against  an  imaginary  one.  The 
Russians  lay  confident  and  calm  above  their 
terrible  fortress.  They  did  not  have  to  bluster 
with  bombardments.    They  knew  their  strength. 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC    301 

They  merely  waited  until  the  Japanese  ad- 
vance reached  a  certain  spot  on  the  slopes.  It 
was  not  a  question  of  aiming  the  guns,  as  it  is 
where  troops  are  constantly  fighting  over  fresh 
ground.  All  that  was  necessary  was  to  pull  the 
triggers.  There  was  about  the  proceeding  little 
of  the  sport  of  war.  The  order  to  advance  was 
as  certainly  fatal  as  the  hangman's  signal  in  an 
execution-chamber,  and  when  the  Japanese  did 
advance  the  few  who  survived  the  murderous 
fire  found  behind  those  superb  entrenchments 
men  just  as  brave,  just  as  cunning,  just  as  strong 
as  they  themselves.  If  it  is  ever  asked  which  is 
the  braver,  Japanese  or  Russian,  no  answer  can 
be  given.  No  one  nation  distinguished  itself  at 
Port  Arthur.    The  glory  belongs  to  both. 

It  was  in  the  third  grand  assault,  when  the 
final  operations  commenced,  that  General  Ichi- 
nobe,  the  commanding  officer  who  had  ordered 
the  sacrifice  of  Takagagi  and  his  immortal 
Ninth  Regiment  and  who  had  summarily  sent 
the  sulking  regiment  to  the  rear,  became  the 
Japanese  Marshal  Ney.  Two  battalions  under 
his  command  succeeded  in  entering  the  P  re- 
doubt, an  outwork  of  the  great  Cock's  Comb 


302  PORT   ARTHUR 

fortification.  Ichinobe  left  his  battalions  after 
midnight,  secure  in  the  conviction  that  his  work 
had  been  successful.  Toward  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning  he  was  roused  by  an  orderly,  who 
reported  that  the  men  had  been  driven  from  the 
P  redoubt.  Ichinobe  was  then  half  a  mile  as 
the  crow  flies,  nearly  one  and  a  half  miles  as  the 
trenches  lay  across  the  valley,  from  the  slope  of 
the  redoubt.  Leaping  from  his  couch,  he  called 
about  him  his  staff-officers,  issued  hurried  or- 
ders to  the  reserves,  and,  at  the  head  of  his  im- 
mediate followers,  ran  through  the  zigzag 
trenches.  Reaching  the  foremost  line,  now  un- 
der the  fire  of  Russian  machine-guns,  he  found 
his  men  not  demolished,  but  surprised,  outnum- 
bered, and  being  driven  sullenly  back.  Draw- 
ing his  saber,  Ichinobe  thrust  the  ranks  aside, 
passed  through,  and  charged  up  the  slope,  lead- 
ing his  heroes  for  the  second  time  into  the  con- 
tested fort.  With  his  own  hand  he  killed  three 
Russians.  When  dawn  came  his  brigade  occu- 
pied the  P  redoubt.  His  immediate  com- 
mander. General  Oshima,  had  an  account  of 
the  exploit  telegraphed  to  the  Emperor  at 
Tokyo.     That    afternoon    an    Imperial    order 


A    CONTEMPORARY   EPIC     303 

reached  the  army,  chistening  the  fort  "  Ichi- 
nobe." 

In  the  assault  of  August  19th  to  26th,  the  few 
men  who  reached  the  parapets  had  received  in 
their  faces  storms  of  what  the  Chinese  call 
"stinkpots";  that  is,  balls  of  fresh  dung.  This 
assault  wholly  failed.  The  dead  were  left  to 
rot,  and  the  wounded  were  shot  as  they  lay,  the 
stench  of  the  corpses  being  used  as  a  weapon  of 
offense  against  the  Japanese,  who  were  trying 
to  maintain  the  advantage  they  had  gained  at 
the  foot  of  the  slope.  The  demonstration  of 
September  19th,  which  also  failed,  was  met 
with  hand-grenades  of  guncotton.  In  the  third 
assault  on  October  29th,  halfway  up  the  Cock's 
Comb,  the  advance  stumbled  over  a  mine,  and 
the  entire  lower  shoulder  of  the  mountain  was 
blown  into  the  air,  taking  with  it  some  twenty- 
five  men,  heads  awry,  legs  and  arms  twisted, 
trunks  shattered.  Nevertheless,  new  volun- 
teers advanced  through  the  crater  thus  formed, 
up  the  glacis  of  the  redoubt,  until  they  reached 
a  new  and  dangerous  obstruction.  This  was  a 
moat  so  cunningly  concealed  under  the  very 
edge  of  the  parapets  that  an  observer  below 


304  PORT   ARTHUR 

could  gain  no  hint  of  its  existence  even  with  the 
most  powerful  field-glasses.  The  ditch  was  so 
deep  that  once  in,  a  man  could  not  get  out  even 
by  climbing  over  another  man's  shoulders.  To 
fall  in  was  certain  death,  for  in  every  turn  of  the 
concealed  moat  was  a  masonry  projection  called 
by  the  cunning  men  who  devise  such  traps,  a 
caponiere.  These  caponieres  were  built  of 
stone  and  covered  with  earth.  They  were  tiny 
forts,  concealing  and  protecting  four  or  five 
Russian  riflemen  and  a  machine-gun.  Conse- 
quently, under  perfect  protection  and  with  their 
foe  in  limited  area,  trapped  like  woodchucks 
in  a  hole,  unable  to  escape,  the  Russians  merely 
had  to  deal  out  whistling  steel  at  their  leisure. 
The  Japanese  did  not  falter.  The  first  men  who 
leaped  into  that  moat  knew  that  they  were  leap- 
ing to  certain  death,  but  they  knew,  too,  that  the 
men  in  the  caponieres  could  be  overwhelmed  by 
the  force  of  the  numbers  to  come  after.  The 
two  caponieres  were  captured  at  once. 

Under  the  parapets  of  this  fort,  dominated  by 
all  the  artillery  of  the  two  armies,  occurred 
some  of  the  grimmest  fighting  that  history  re- 
cords.   It  was  at  midnight  of  the  second  day  of 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC     305 

final  occupation.  The  black  mountains  lay  be- 
hind, the  black  forts  in  front,  the  blacker  plain 
below.  A  Japanese  lieutenant,  Oda,  asked  for  a 
volunteer  Keissheitai,  or  certain-death  party. 
Thirty  Keissheitai  men  came  forward.  Oda  put 
himself  at  their  head  and  ventured  along  the 
bed  of  the  moat  toward  the  rearmost  caponiere, 
with  the  idea  of  capturing  it.  The  fort  is  very 
long — about  one  and  a  half  times  the  length  of 
an  ocean  liner — so  he  found  room  and  time  for 
adventure.  There  was  no  moon,  and  the  moat 
was  too  close  to  the  Russians  for  them  to  de- 
press their  searchlights  sufficiently  to  illuminate 
it.  In  the  blackness,  halfway  down  the  moat, 
Oda  and  his  men  met  a  Russian  lieutenant 
prowling  with  a  squad  of  men  behind  him,  bent 
on  the  recapture  of  the  two  caponieres  which 
the  Japanese  had  seized.  They  had  it  out,  not 
with  bullets,  but  bayonet  to  bayonet,  fist  to  fist, 
and  even  teeth  and  nails.  Oda  and  the  Russian, 
in  locked  embrace,  reeled  back  and  forth,  fall- 
ing, rising,  scratching,  first  one  on  top  and  then 
the  other,  each  losing  sight  and  control  of  his 
men,  all  of  whom  were  engaged  in  individual 
combats  just  as  savage. 


3o6  PORT   ARTHUR 

The  two  leaders,  grappling  for  an  opportu- 
nity that  each  sought,  bumping  against  the  walls 
of  the  narrow  moat,  reached,  without  knowing 
it,  en  embrasure  which  led  to  the  rear  of  the 
fort  and  into  the  gorge.  Tripping  over  this, 
not  knowing  where  they  were  going,  the  two 
plunged  headlong  down  the  slope.  Above 
frowned  two  Russian  batteries.  Beyond  rose  the 
great  red-capped  sky  line  of  the  Cock's  Comb. 
A  hundred  yards,  scratched  by  the  stones, 
smashed  by  the  shale,  they  slipped  and  writhed, 
until  they  struck  a  tiny  plateau  halfway  down 
the  mountain.  Here  the  two,  clinched,  stopped 
as  might  a  dislodged  stone  toppling  from  its 
socket.  In  the  struggle  Oda  had  been  able  to 
get  his  right  arm  free,  which  he  reached  over 
across  his  enemy's  back,  grasping  the  hilt  of  his 
straight,  samurai  sword.  Pulling  it  halfway 
out  of  the  scabbard,  which  was  tightly  lashed  to 
his  waist,  he  sawed  and  pulled  until  the  slender, 
tapering  steel  had  gashed  through  the  Russian's 
clothing,  full  to  his  backbone. 

Late  the  following  night,  after  the  sun  had 
gone,  Oda  crawled  into  his  own  trenches  at  the 
base  of  the  mountain.     His  men  had  been  re- 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC     307 

pulsed  by  a  second  party  of  Russians  who  had 
made  a  sortie  to  relieve  the  first.  But,  still  the 
Japanese  held  the  two  caponieres  in  front  and 
the  Russians  the  two  in  the  rear.  Oda  got  no 
medals  nor  applause.  Two  days  later  a  breast- 
wound  which  sent  him  to  a  hospital  in  Japan 
saved  his  life,  for  had  he  stayed  he  would  have 
certainly  gotten  himself  killed. 

The  Japanese  during  the  first  two  nights  hast- 
ily dug  out  approaches  and  had  a  partially  cov- 
ered way  from  the  base  of  the  mountain  to  the 
moat.  This  gave  them  their  vital  hold  on  the 
north  battery  of  the  Cock's  Comb.  So  resolute 
were  the  Russians  in  holding  every  inch  of 
ground  that  it  was  a  full  month  and  a  half  after 
that  before  the  Japanese  could  take  the  com- 
plete fortification.  And  when  the  complete  for- 
tification was  taken  it  availed  but  little,  for  it 
was  but  one  of  three  great  batteries  which 
formed  the  series  known  as  East  Keekwan, 
which  was  itself  but  a  portion  of  the  eastern  line 
of  permanent  defenses. 

To  see  how  the  rest  of  the  great  Northeast 
Keekwan  (Cock's  Comb)  Battery  was  taken  is 
to  see  how  Port  Arthur  was  taken,  for  all  the 


3o8  PORT   ARTHUR 

forts  were  reduced  in  the  same  way.  203-Meter 
Hill,  the  Two  Dragons,  the  Eternal  Dragon, 
Quail  Hill,  Wangtai,  and  the  Pine  Tree  fell  as 
did  the  Cock's  Comb.  The  only  difference  lay 
in  incident. 

It  must  be  remembered  that  the  fight  was 
never  over  with  the  taking  of  the  outer  para- 
pet. Inside  the  forts,  beyond  the  parapets, 
well  protected  by  moats  and  caponieres,  was  a 
sheltering  earthwork  called  the  contrascarp, 
crossing  which,  storming  parties  met  a  close  and 
unerring  fire  from  men  concealed  beyond,  in 
ways  formed  of  timber  balks  and  sandbags,  and 
called  traverses.  Below  these  traverses  were 
galleries  where  the  garrison  lived;  and  below 
the  galleries  were  the  bombproofs  protecting  the 
ammunition.  Under  the  traverses,  covering  the 
galleries  and  bombproofs,  was  heavy  masonry 
from  two  to  three  feet  thick. 

To  undertake  the  capture  of  the  whole  chain 
of  fortifications  by  such  sacrifices  as  those  which 
gained  a  single  one  of  the  Keekwan  forts  might 
have  entailed  the  extermination  of  the  whole 
besieging  army  and  of  all  the  reinforcements 
which  could  have  been  sent  to  its  support.    But 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC    309 

with  one  fortress  in  the  chain  in  Japanese  hands 
there  was  another  way — sapping. 

Through  November  the  Japanese  engineers 
were  busy  digging  underground  from  the  ad- 
vantageous hold  they  had  on  the  north  battery. 
They  started  straight  down  through  the  solid 
rock.  Only  a  few  men  could  work  at  a  time, 
and  these  could  dig  only  while  the  trench  pro- 
tecting them,  which  was  a  few  yards  in  advance, 
was  held  by  their  comrades,  vigorously  firing, 
to  keep  down  the  Russian  garrison,  now  not 
more  than  a  hundred  feet  away.  Moreover, 
sometimes  when  the  Japanese  sappers  were  half 
concealed  in  the  earth,  sometimes  when  they 
were  wholly  underground,  companies  of  des- 
perate Russians  would  suddenly  break  forth  on 
them,  spurred  by  Stoessel's  promise  of  the  Cross 
of  St.  George  and  a  money  prize  to  whoever 
should  break  up  any  Japanese  work.  Thus  at 
night,  hounded  by  shells,  sleuthed  by  search- 
lights, and  harassed  by  heroes  from  across  the 
way,  the  hole  was  dug.  Forty  feet  down  it  had 
to  go  to  get  below  the  level  of  the  galleries  and 
bombproofs,  then  another  twenty  feet  forward 
to  find  a  spot  under  the  vitals  of  the  fortification. 


3IO  PORT    ARTHUR 

Stupendous  as  the  task  was,  the  tunnels  were 
finished  at  last,  and  on  December  i8th  a  quar- 
ter of  a  ton  of  dynamite  was  placed  in  two  such 
mines,  and  the  galleries  and  bombproofs  of  the 
north  battery  were  blown  into  the  air,  with  the 
demolished  bodies  of  some  forty-five  men  of 
the  garrison. 

And  even  this  was  only  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  Already  the  Japanese  had  accomplished 
a  herculean  task.  They  had  sweated,  endured, 
writhed  in  agony,  died,  and  they  had  taken  only 
one  battery.  Ahead  of  them  still  rose,  tier  on 
tier,  forts  and  batteries,  moats  and  walls,  until 
the  soul  grew  sick  to  think  that  Port  Arthur 
must  be  bought  with  sacrifice  so  vast.  But  the 
Japanese  did  not  turn  back,  did  not  weep, 
showed  no  despair.  They  came  to  work,  to 
meals,  as  cheerfully  as  ever  they  had  done  in  the 
rice  paddies.  And  this,  notwithstanding  that 
winter  was  on  them,  that  the  keen,  equinoctial 
gales  blew  in  from  both  seas,  that  the  thermom- 
eter fell  to  zero  and  below.  They  were  sur- 
rounded by  charnel  houses  of  their  own  making, 
and  protected  only  by  miserable,  hasty  dugouts 
shielded  from  cold  and  wind  by  a  few  broken 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC    311 

boughs,  light  shelter-tents,  and  hastily  packed 
earth.  Death  was  preferred  to  a  wound,  for 
the  wounded  had  small  hope  of  succor;  yet  life 
was  cherished  and  fostered. 

Meanwhile  the  Russians  were  busy.  They  de- 
vised a  new  scheme  of  defense.  Kerosene  was 
taken  through  a  subterranean  gallery  of  the  Two 
Dragons  into  a  moat  and  there  poured  on  piles 
of  straw.    Then  they  waited. 

At  the  fifth  grand  assault,  when  the  north  bat- 
tery of  the  East  Cock's  Comb  was  taken,  the 
Two  Dragons  were  simultaneously  attacked.  A 
company  of  Japanese  headed  for  the  moat.  The 
kerosene  and  straw  were  set  on  fire  and  the  men 
who  leaped  into  the  moat,  expecting  to  find  cap- 
onieres  as  they  had  found  them  in  the  Cock's 
Comb,  were  caught  by  flame.  Many  perished 
miserably.  Some  valiantly  fought  the  flames, 
but  few  survived.  These  few — that  is,  the  few 
who  do  the  work  in  warfare — the  few  who  ac- 
complish that  for  which  the  thousands  die — 
made  possible  the  Japanese  advance.  Through, 
over,  and  beyond  these  few,  the  Japanese  finally 
entered  Port  Arthur. 

Science  is  well,  up  to  a  certain  point.    Then 


312  PORT   ARTHUR 

it  becomes  useless  and  cruel.  The  genius  of 
the  engineer  helps  the  soldier  across  the  valley 
and  to  the  parapet,  but  there  leaves  him  in  an 
agony  of  suspense,  over  electric  mines,  under 
dynamite  batteries,  crisscrossed  by  machine 
guns.  If  the  nerves  of  this  marvelous  soldier 
survive  the  ordeal,  and  if  his  body  escapes  the 
flying  chunks  of  steel,  he  is  reserved  for  the 
extremity  of  modern  torture — hand-to-hand 
fighting  in  scientific  warfare.  At  a  moderate 
distance  he  tosses  balls  of  guncotton;  he  closes 
with  stones  and  stinkpots;  he  parleys  with  the 
bayonet,  and  finishes  with  teeth  and  fists. 

By  chance,  one  morning  in  September,  as  the 
dawn  came  in,  there  was  revealed  in  a  captured 
bombproof  one  little  instance  of  the  hideous- 
ness  of  the  conflict.  The  arm  of  a  Japanese  boy 
in  khaki  hung  limply  across  the  back  of  a  huge 
blond  fellow  in  baggy  trousers.  From  the  hand 
of  the  boy  had  fallen  a  pistol,  which  had  caught 
in  the  blouse  of  the  big  one;  it  had  not  fallen 
too  soon,  for  just  below  the  muzzle  the  blouse 
was  matted  thick  with  the  life  stream  that  had 
welled  out  in  response  to  the  death  call.  The 
big  teeth  were  clinched  deep  and  tight  into  the 


A    CONTEMPORARY    EPIC    313 

little  jugular.  On  the  boy's  slant-eyed  face, 
good-natured,  yet  stamped  with  the  strange 
pathos  of  a  people  close  to  the  soil,  was  written 
a  mute  appeal  for  mercy.  To  that  appeal  there 
was  no  answer.  The  boy's  dead  face  stared  into 
the  unresponsive  block  timber  of  the  bomb- 
proof. 

In  the  bloody  angle  of  the  Eternal  Dragon, 
the  most  fiercely  contested  zone  at  Fort  Arthur, 
you  might  have  seen  these  boys  any  day  of  those 
three  frightful  midsummer  months,  when  the 
slim  wedge  was  being  driven  inch  by  inch  into 
the  Russian  right  center.  Everything  was  covered 
with  the  white  powder  of  dried  mud.  All  was 
wrecked.  The  path  lay  through  a  series  of 
shell  holes,  connected  rudely  with  pick  and 
spade.  Up  to  that  point  the  ground  had  been 
neatly  cut,  but  here  it  became  rough  and  crude. 
No  inch  of  dirt  had  been  unnecessarily  touched, 
because  the  enemy  lay  within  forty  yards  on 
three  sides.  The  debris  of  battle  was  all  about 
— torn  Russian  caps,  conical  and  heavy, 
mingled  with  the  light  brown  of  Japanese  uni- 
forms, cartridge  pouches  half  filled,  shattered 
rifles,     demolished     sabres,     a     gun     carriage 


314  PORT   ARTHUR 

smashed  till  the  wheel  spokes  splintered  the 
breech,  rocks  pounded  by  bullets  as  by  a  ham- 
mer, and,  over  the  wall,  seen  as  you  stole  by  the 
chinks,  khaki  bags,  loose  over  rotting  bones. 

All  through  the  night  when  this  bloody  angle 
was  first  taken  and  after  it  had  been  protected 
with  trenches  from  recapture,  Oshima,  the  gen- 
eral commanding  the  division,  sat  in  his  tent 
without  sleep.  He  was  shaken  by  sobs,  for  he 
had  been  compelled  to  order  that  the  entrench- 
ments be  made  of  the  bodies  of  the  dead  and 
wounded.  Only  rock  was  there  and  to  hold  the 
place  a  quick  shelter  was  essential.  The  half- 
dead  men  whose  bodies  were  used  by  comrades 
to  stop  the  steel  hail  smiled  in  approval  at  the 
work;  they  knew  it  was  done  for  the  best,  but 
Oshima  could  not  sleep;  he  wept  bitterly  all 
night. 

Along  that  bloody  angle  and  through  all  the 
eight-mile  front  for  many  months  lay  on  duty 
the  soldier  of  the  Emperor,  the  boy  who  won 
the  victory.  He  crouched  under  the  parapet, 
rifle  to  cheek,  its  steel  nose  through  a  loophole, 
his  finger  on  the  trigger.  The  tensity  of  his 
muscles  and  his  eyes  glancing  down  the  barrel  in 


A    CONTEMPORARY   EPIC     315 

deadly  aim,  made  him  look  like  a  great  cat  paus- 
ing for  a  spring.  One  leg  was  drawn  up  and 
his  cap  was  pulled  viciously  over  his  eyes.  The 
sun  beat  upon  him  as  he  lay,  venomous  with 
pent-up  passion,  cut  in  silhouette  against  the 
trench,  a  shade  darker  than  the  shale.  A  min- 
ute before  he  had  offered  tea  and  cigarettes ;  now 
he  dealt  out  hot  lead.  He  might  be  a  university 
student,  or  a  merchant,  or  a  professional  man. 
Wherever  he  came  from  he  was  the  pride  of  his 
neighborhood.  Physically  he  was  superb — 
perfect  eyes  and  teeth,  digestion  hardy  and  fit  as 
clockwork;  this  must  have  been  so  or  he  would 
not  have  been  allowed  to  enlist.  Moreover,  he 
was  a  veteran  of  four  months'  severe  campaign- 
ing, seven  pitched  battles,  and  two  months'  hard 
siege.  Here  he  stood,  far  out  on  the  firing  line, 
clashed  between  two  civilizations,  hurled  into 
the  pallor  of  conflict,  tossed  by  the  greed  of 
nations.  Yes.  Down  there  in  the  ditches  lived 
the  re^l  besieger  of  Port  Arthur.  Not  science, 
nor  generalship,  nor  race  bravery  reduced  Port 
Arthur;  it  was  done  by  men  who  could  live  and 
die  with  the  simple  heroism  of  cavemen  and 
vikings. 


Chapter  Eighteen 

THE    NEW   SIEGE   WARFARE 

ONE  morning  in  August  General  Nogi 
stood  before  his  battalion  command- 
ers at  Port  Arthur  with  a  pick  in  his 
hand.  Its  nose  and  heel  had  been 
worn  away  until  the  shank  of  rusted  iron  re- 
sembled an  earth-dappled  cucumber.  Fond- 
ling it.  the  General  said:  " Take  a  lesson  from 
this  Russian  pick.  Your  men  must  dig.  They 
are  too  eager  to  ask,  'Why  intrench  to- 
night when  we  are  going  forward  in  the 
morning?' " 

Nogi  here  went  to  the  heart  of  his  problem. 
It  had  cost  him  25,000  men  to  learn  that  the  mili- 
tary engineer  must  precede  siege  assaults,  as  his 
brother,  the  civil  engineer,  precedes  rapid 
transit  in  New  York.  The  lesson,  taught  by 
Julius  Caesar  to  the  legions  in  Gaul  nineteen 
hundred  years  ago,  Nogi  and  his  heroes  re- 
learned  before  Port  Arthur  in  1904.     The  ad- 

316 


NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE        317 

vance  in  that  cycle  of  time  has  been  not  in 
digging,  but  in  ways  of  digging.  The  Japanese 
had  to  cross  a  valley  a  mile  wide  and  six  miles 
long,  dominated  at  all  points  by  every  degree  of 
hostile  fire.  This  did  not  appall  them.  They 
accepted  the  problem,  grappled  with  it,  and 
mastered  it. 

They  honeycombed  the  valley,  in  the  classic 
manner,  with  eighteen  miles  of  trenches  and  tun- 
nels. The  chief  element  in  the  problem  was  to 
hide  these  from  an  enemy  with  lookouts  above 
the  plain.  "Till  Birnam  wood  do  come  to 
Dunsinane,"  the  prophecy  that  sounded  Mac- 
beth's  doom,  had  already  been  heeded  by  the 
Russians  before  Kuroki's  northern  operations. 
Here  the  witch,  whispering  in  Stoessel's  ear, 
might  have  warned  him  of  his  end  when 
"maize-stalk  fields  shall  climb  the  Dragon's 
front " ;  for  it  was  under  the  protection  of  maize- 
stalks,  twisting  through  a  shell-swept  plain,  that 
the  sappers  crept  on  their  slow  but  inevitable 
advance. 

The  Japanese  attache  in  South  Africa  had 
seen  the  Boer  commandos,  under  fire,  suddenly 
vanish    in    waving    stalks    of    corn,    projected, 


3i8  PORT^.ARTHUR 

screen-like,  across  a  telltale  front.  It  was  a 
savage  trick,  learned  by  the  Boers  from  the 
Kaffirs;  and  though  school-bred  British  minds 
sneered  at  a  ruse  apparently  so  childish,  yet 
many  times  their  game  was  lost  through  such 
maneuvers.  The  Boers  used  their  maize  in 
wholesale  fashion,  covering  their  front  with 
deep  layers  of  whole  sheaves.  The  Japanese 
improved  on  this.  Students  of  nature,  disciples 
of  nature,  they  gave  no  gross  imitations.  In 
late  autumn,  over  a  field  battle-tossed  for  three 
months,  trampled  by  two  armies,  and  sickled  by 
the  husbandman  Death,  they  advanced,  resur- 
recting the  corn-fields  as  they  went,  till  the  Rus- 
sian eye  beyond  could  not  guess  the  point  where 
maize  standing  by  chance  left  off  and  maize 
erected  by  besiegers  began.  Each  angle  of  ad- 
vance was  concealed  by  these  brown,  withered 
sheaves. 

But  maize  was  only  the  screen,  and  could  not 
hide  the  thousands  of  tons  of  earth  which  had 
to  be  taken  from  the  plain.  To  throw  the  earth 
beside  the  trenches,  thus  bringing  into  Russian 
sight  a  furrow  like  that  of  a  gigantic  plow, 
would  have  revealed  the  Japanese  position  as 


NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE        319 

clearly  as  a  blue  pencil  could  have  diagramed  it 
on  white  paper. 

To  hide  the  earth  of  this  digging  was  the 
appalling  task.  It  was  done  gloriously.  The 
advance  sappers  threw  their  first  trickle  of  mole- 
like progress  backward  between  their  legs  from 
the  furious  indent  of  their  tiny  spades.  Helpers 
behind  immediately  deepened  and  widened  the 
rivulet  of  shelter  thus  begun.  The  infantry- 
men, closing  in  at  daybreak  throughout  the  hot 
sun,  perfected  it,  but  the  reserves  accomplished 
the  new  thing.  As  fast  as  the  earth  was  dis- 
placed they  carried  it  with  gabions  and  bamboo 
stretchers  back  through  the  zigzag  lines  behind 
the  mountain  range  which  concealed  their  own 
heavy  guns.  Here,  parallel  with  the  Russian 
defense,  mile  after  mile  of  fresh-smelling 
mounds  slipped  up  through  the  cautious,  indus- 
trious months  following  that  frightful  August. 
Passing  across  the  valley  through  these  tunnels, 
deep  enough  to  shelter  regiments,  three  months 
after  the  Aceldama  of  midsummer,  one  could, 
in  safety,  be  frowned  on  by  hostile  batteries,  dis- 
tant three  hundred  yards,  or  look  into  the  plain 
gridironed  with  cunning  trenches,  and,  like  the 


320  PORT   ARTHUR 

foe  above,  see  no  evidence  of  life.  The  maize- 
stalks  hid  the  trench  turnings,  and  though  the 
plain  was  alive  with  its  thousands  of  armed  men, 
even  the  practiced  eye  that  had  just  been  among 
them  could  not  tell  where  they  lay.  Where  had 
the  output  of  that  enormous  digging  gone?  As 
well  ask  the  chipmunk  where  he  puts  the  dirt 
from  his  hole.  It  was  a  new  experience  for  the 
Russians  to  fight  a  foe  who  could  wiggle 
through  the  earth  as  easily  as  he  could  cross  it, 
and,  underneath,  escape  the  death  that  he  met 
on  top. 

Both  sides  had  sailors  on  land.  The  Jap- 
anese emplaced  the  navy  six-inch  guns  in  the  bot- 
tom of  a  valley.  The  army  field  guns  were 
perched  along  the  peaks  in  front,  from  which 
they  could  bark  down  like  noisy  house-dogs. 
But  the  savage  bite  came  from  the  big  guns,  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  behind,  the  location  of  which 
was  mistaken  by  the  Russians  as  identical  with 
that  of  the  blustering  field-pieces  on  the  ridge. 
The  sailors  did  not  trust  alone  to  the  improba- 
bility of  their  hiding-place.  They  cut  out  earth 
the  size  of  a  ship's  hull,  mended  the  broken 
crust  with  timber  balks,  and  thrust  the  noses  of 


NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE        321 

the  six-inchers  out  of  two  square  openings  that 
might  have  been  turret-holes.  Thus,  entirely 
protected,  though  within  easy  range  of  the 
enemy,  they  escaped  serious  injury.  This  was 
the  most  effective  Japanese  battery;  it  has  be- 
come famous  for  tenacity. 

For  the  first  time  coast-defense  guns  battled 
with  each  other.  The  Russians  turned  most  of 
theirs  landward.  The  Japanese  learned  that 
field  artillery  was  useless  against  either  the  fleet 
or  the  permanent  forts.  Such  knowledge 
prompted  the  assignment  of  a  naval  brigade  to 
the  initial  bombardment,  which,  with  the  first 
grand  assault,  failed.  Then  they  immediately 
turned  to  home  for  heavier  ordnance.  Mortars 
for  coast-defense  along  the  Straits  of  Shimo- 
noseki  and  on  the  Bay  of  Yezo  were  all  but 
completed  in  the  military  shops  at  Osacca. 
Twenty-six  of  them  were  immediately  sent  by 
transport  to  Dalny,  and  thence  by  rail  over  the 
tip  of  the  mended  Trans-Siberian  to  the  last  sta- 
tion outside  the  zone  of  the  Russian  fire. 

The  shipment  of  these  great  guns,  the  mortar- 
barrel  of  one  weighing  eight  tons,  up  to  that 
point  where   cranes,   steamships,    and    locomo- 


322  PORT   ARTHUR 

tives  of  the  finest  type  were  available,  was  a 
gigantic  undertaking.  Arrived  at  the  shattered 
station  in  the  night — for  day  work  was  impos- 
sible— the  task  was  only  begun.  From  there 
the  guns  were  hauled  by  hand,  for  horses  or 
Manchu  oxen  could  not  be  used  where  silence 
and  concerted  intelligence  were  essential. 
Eight  hundred  men  were  detailed  to  each  gun, 
which  was  mounted  on  skids  such  as  lumbermen 
use  in  the  North  Woods.  Four  abreast,  with 
hemp  thongs  across  their  shoulders,  and  all 
attached  to  a  long  cable  as  thick  as  a  man's  leg, 
the  men  labored  on  through  the  mud,  after  dark, 
with  the  Russian  shells  flinging  out  searching 
challenge  over  their  heads,  occasionally  a  quart 
of  shrapnel  bullets  spurting  promiscuously  into 
their  ranks.  Of  the  positions  to  which  the  guns 
were  thus  taken  the  nearest  were  a  thousand 
yards  and  the  farthest  three  and  a  half  miles 
away.  Once  they  were  there,  no  emplacement 
of  shale  or  earth,  such  as  sufficed  for  field  artil- 
lery and  for  naval  guns,  would  do.  So  under 
each  gun  was  laid  eight  feet  of  concrete,  firm 
and  deep;  and  when  it  had  hardened  the  gun 
was  emplaced.     All  this  was  done  under  fire,  in 


NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE        323 

the  night,  the  men  being  spat  upon  frequently 
by  the  glare  of  the  searchlight,  pelted  some- 
times by  wind  and  rain,  and,  toward  the  end  of 
autumn,  seared  by  the  winds  howling  in  from 
two  seas.  It  was  prodigious  toil,  obscure  hero- 
ism unbelievable.  But  it  was  successful,  for  it 
was  this  coast-defense  artillery  that  sank  the 
Russian  fleet.  None  other  could  have  done  it. 
The  monster  labor  of  placing  these  guns  on  the 
bleak  Manchurian  hills,  from  which  they  have 
contested  with  the  finest  defenses  in  the  world, 
is  one  of  the  thrilling  engineering  feats  of  mod- 
ern times. 

For  the  first  time  in  history  armies  battled 
under  searchlights.  There  had  before  been 
fights  at  sea,  and  at  Kimberley  a  few  skirmishes 
under  searchlights;  but  in  front  of  Port  Arthur 
they  have  lighted  up  decisive  engagements,  ex- 
tensive maneuvers,  and  vast  losses.  Science  has 
intensified  war.  It  has  limited  numerical  loss, 
but  it  has  increased  individual  suffering;  and, 
as  in  modern  city  life,  it  strains  brain  and  nerves 
to  the  breaking-point. 

In  August,  for  seven  days  and  seven  nights 
without  cessation,  a  great  battle  was  fought — 


324  PORT   ARTHUR 

the  first  grand  assault,  which  failed  and  failed 
and  failed  until  Nogi  learned  his  lesson. 
Maneuvers  as  intricate  and  almost  as  extensive 
as  those  in  the  north  at  Liaoyang  were  conducted 
alternately  under  sun,  moon,  and  searchlight. 
The  crux  of  this  action  rested  on  one  of  Stoessel's 
searchlight  tricks,  played  on  the  night  of  the 
seventh  blow  of  Nogi's  hammer,  desperately 
driving  a  wedge  into  the  fortress.  All  the  after- 
noon the  Japanese  artillery  had  been  fiercely 
bombarding  the  ridges  of  the  Cock's  Comb,  the 
Eternal  Dragon,  and  the  Two  Dragons.  One 
by  one  the  Russian  batteries  ceased  firing.  It 
seemed  that  they  were  silenced.  Night  fell, 
with  prospects  fair  for  assault.  A  rising  storm 
increased  the  Japanese  hope,  for  in  wind  and 
rain  the  searchlights  would  be  nullified.  Then, 
as  night  and  rain  came  down  together,  the 
searchlights  struggling  with  both,  the  Japanese 
shrapnel  opened  up  against  the  lights.  They 
had  tried  before,  unsuccessfully,  to  reach  the 
dynamos  hidden  in  the  hills.  This  time  the  at- 
tempt apparently  succeeded.  The  man  behind 
the  light  waited  until  a  Japanese  shell  burst  in 
the  line  of  vision  between  him  and  his  foes,  and 


NEW   SIEGE    WARFARE        325 

then  turned  off  the  switch,  giving  the  Japanese 
the  impression  that  the  light  had  been  shattered. 
In  this  manner,  one  after  another,  three  of  the 
searchlights  playing  over  the  center  of  the  field 
were  "  shattered."  With  lights  and  guns  appar- 
enly  out  of  the  contest,  and  favored  by  the 
storm  and  the  night,  Japanese  expectation  rose 
higher. 

After  midnight  the  most  desperate  of  the 
eleven  assaults  conducted  through  the  seven  days 
was  made  against  the  Cock's  Comb  and  the 
Eternal  Dragon.  Halfway  up  the  slope  of  the 
Cock's  Comb  the  three  "  shattered  "  lights,  con- 
verging at  one  point,  threw  the  advance  out  in 
silhouette  against  the  red  earth  and  the  white 
shale.  At  the  same  moment  the  "shattered" 
batteries  opened  up,  every  gun  alive.  Simulta- 
neously a  regiment  of  Siberian  sharpshooters 
sortied  from  the  Two  Dragons,  caught  the  flanks 
in  their  onslaught,  and  all  but  annihilated  the 
two  regiments  in  front.  Reinforced,  bringing 
to  the  task  that  dour  pluck  that  has  given  the 
Anglo-Saxon  his  hold  on  his  big  corner  of  earth, 
a  quality  the  possession  of  which  by  the  Japanese 
was  once  questioned,  the  reserves  hammered  the 


326  PORT   ARTHUR 

Siberians  into  their  trenches;  and  though  the 
assault  against  the  Cock's  Comb  failed,  shortly 
after  dawn  the  Eternal  Dragon  fell.  This  was 
the  tip  of  the  wedge,  driven  at  fearful  cost  into 
the  Russian  right  center,  and  was  the  objective 
needed  by  the  engineers  to  outline  across  the  val- 
ley the  vast  mining  operations  of  those  three 
months. 

Between  the  hostile  lines,  held  all  summer  and 
autumn  with  desperate  determination,  lay  a 
zone  on  which  the  dead  were  not  buried  or  the 
wounded  succored.  To  send  Red  Cross  men 
into  this  field  was  to  lose  two  fighting  units  for 
every  one  saved,  and  no  general  would  be  guilty 
of  such  folly.  The  intensity  of  scientific  con- 
ditions, the  forces  of  which  are  the  searchlight 
and  the  star  bomb,  the  military  engineer  and 
the  hyposcope,  thus  brought  the  fulfillment  of 
Archibald  Forbes's  prophecy,  made  twenty 
years  ago.  The  time  has  come,  as  he  said  it 
would,  when  the  wounded  cannot  be  rescued 
from  a  battlefield. 

Kimberley  saw  the  dawn  of  the  fireworks 
branch  of  warfare.  It  was  left  for  Port  Arthur 
to  bring  into  permanent  use  this  feu  de  joie  of 


NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE        327 

holiday  nights,  a  delight  in  peace,  in  war  a  spy. 
Rockets,  such  as  we  use  on  the  Fourth  of  July, 
bursting  above  the  plain,  threw  phosphorus  over 
the  advancing  sappers  and  lighted  up  acres  as 
though  by  candelabra  of  stars.  The  Russians 
used  three  batteries  of  such  star  bombs,  and  their 
dazzle  added  spectacle  to  horror.  Some  Jap- 
anese officers  contended  that  they  caused  no 
annoyance,  but  my  observation  of  the  results 
was  that  they  gave  annoyance,  but  were  not 
a  decisive  factor.  By  lying  low,  advancing 
troops  could  always  escape  being  seen  when  the 
light  came  their  way. 

It  was  to  be  expected  that  a  people  like  the 
Japanese,  inventive,  versatile,  and  industrious, 
would  develop  extraordinary  resources  when 
confronted  with  such  a  problem  as  Port  Arthur, 
the  reducing  of  which  has  caused  them  great 
agony  and  cost  vast  treasure.  Archimedes 
would  have  rejoiced  to  know  Colonel  Imazawa. 
Major  Yamaoka  of  General  Nogi's  staff  once 
said:  "The  world  makes  too  much  fuss  over 
the  unreasoning  bravery  of  the  private  soldier. 
It  pays  too  little  attention  to  the  obscure  effort 
of  the  engineer,  who  risks  as  much,  but  with 


328  PORT   ARTHUR 

full  realization  of  what  it  means."  Yamaoka 
was  speaking  of  Imazawa.  The  two  are 
friends. 

Imazawa's  most  effective  device  was  the 
wooden  grenade  gun,  an  invention  to  save 
assaulters  from  death  by  their  own  explosives. 
He  found  that  a  soldier  carrying  hand-grenades 
of  guncotton  up  a  slope  under  fire,  if  properly 
hit,  became  a  more  frightful  menace  to  his  com- 
rades than  an  opposing  mine.  So  he  made  a 
wooden  barrel  three  feet  long,  erected  it  at  an 
angle  of  forty-five  degrees  on  a  wooden  upright, 
and  by  a  catch-spring  tossed  the  balls  of  guncot- 
ton from  it  several  hundred  yards  into  the  Rus- 
sian parapet. 

After  the  taking  of  Hatchimakiyama  (the 
Turban  Fort),  Imazawa  found  his  men  for  the 
first  time  on  a  height  above  the  Russian  trenches. 
Then  he  invented  the  dynamite  wheel.  This  is 
a  steel  cylinder  containing  five  hundredweight 
of  dynamite,  with  a  projecting  shield  for  sol- 
diers who  roll  it  forward  under  fire  until  it 
reaches  the  declivity  down  which  it  is  hurled. 
The  opposing  trench  precipitates  the  explosion. 

Imazawa  also  improved  the  saphead  shield, 


NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE       329 

used  by  besiegers  since  the  Middle  Ages. 
Formerly  it  was  a  heavy  log  of  wood,  protected 
by  armor-plate,  behind  which  pioneer  soldiers 
advanced  their  trenches  when  close  to  the 
enemy  and  under  outpost  fire.  A  solid  log  was 
too  heavy  for  the  Japanese  purposes,  so  Imazawa 
contrived  a  framework  of  kiri-wood,  both  light 
and  tough,  over  which  he  built  a  steel  shield 
such  as  Maxim  put  on  his  machine-gun.  The 
shield  stuck  out  in  advance  of  the  framework 
like  a  cow-catcher  on  a  locomotive.  It  was 
rolled  out  of  the  saphead  one  or  two  feet  toward 
the  enemy.  Behind  it  two  sappers,  on  their 
bellies,  dug  out  from  under  their  legs  the  be- 
ginning of  a  wide,  safe  trench  in  which,  two  days 
later,  a  regiment  could  find  shelter.  Nervous 
work  this,  with  bullets  raining  overhead  like 
hail  on  a  tin  roof;  but  Imazawa  made  it  prac- 
ticable. 

Before  he  finally  hit  on  his  grenade  gun, 
Imazawa  employed  a  bamboo  grenade  lift,  his 
first  device  to  let  assaulters  hurl  their  explosives 
into  redoubts  without  danger  to  themselves. 
These  were  twenty-foot  lengths  of  heavy  bamboo, 
to  the  ends  of  which  balls  of  guncotton  were  tied. 


330  PORT   ARTHUR 

Two  soldiers  carried  one  of  these  lifts  up  a 
slope,  projected  the  grenade  over  a  trench  or  a 
parapet,  and  let  the  furious  Russians  smash  it 
and  themselves  into  destruction. 

The  last  thing  Imazawa  did  was  a  mistake — 
not  his,  but  still  a  mistake.  In  preparing  for 
the  third  grand  assault  on  October  29th,  after  the 
sapheads  had  been  worked  to  within  a  hundred 
yards  of  the  parapet  on  the  Two  Dragons 
redoubt,  it  was  found  that  a  dry  moat  separated 
the  Japanese  from  their  prey.  The  width  and 
depth  of  this  moat  were  difficult  to  determine. 
In  the  most  fiercely  contested  zone,  and  on  a 
plateau  so  situated  that  it  could  not  be  accu- 
rately seen  from  any  of  the  heights  possessed  by 
the  Japanese,  its  exact  nature  remained  a 
mystery.  Scouting  was  difficult,  for  it  was  com- 
manded not  only  by  the  batteries  of  the  Two 
Dragons,  but  also  by  the  batteries  of  the  great- 
est forts  at  Port  Arthur — the  Chair,  the  Table, 
the  Cock's  Comb,  and  Golden  Hill.  To  reach 
it  a  scout  would  have  to  cross  several  hundred 
yards  of  red  earth,  bare  to  every  sight,  and  com- 
manded by  sharpshooters.  Of  those  who  went 
in  for  information  about  that  mysterious  dry 


NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE        331 

moat,  for  a  week  none  came  back.  Finally  one 
scout,  more  cautious  than  the  rest,  returned  and 
reported  to  Imazawa,  "Ten  meters."  Thirty- 
nine  feet  is  big  width  for  a  moat,  and  no  one 
could  wonder  that,  sneaking  along  there  in  the 
dark,  with  momentary  fear  of  searchlights  and 
sharpshooters,  the  scout,  finding  a  hole  wider 
than  his  imagination,  thought  the  distance  great 
if  it  was  ten  meters.  So  Imazawa  made  his  bam- 
boo ladders  fourteen  meters  long.  On  the  day 
of  the  assault,  everything  having  progressed 
favorably  up  to  that  point,  the  bombardment  and 
the  flank  work  against  forts  on  each  side  being 
successful,  the  advance  went  in  with  Imazawa's 
fourteen-meter  ladders.  Under  fierce  fire 
nearly  half  of  the  men  dropped  from  the  ranks, 
and  only  enough  were  left  to  handle  three  lad- 
ders, the  glacis  of  the  redoubt  being  littered  with 
four  others  whose  bearers  had  been  slain.  The 
hardy  scaling  party  at  last  placed  their  ladders 
securely  on  one  edge  of  the  moat  and  dropped 
them  across,  expecting  the  next  moment  to  dash 
across  them  to  victory,  leaving  the  reserves 
crouched  in  the  trenches,  waiting  for  the  word  to 
follow.     Judge  of  their  dismay  when  the  lad- 


332  PORT    ARTHUR 

ders  fell  from  the  perpendicular  to  horizon- 
tal, from  the  horizontal  to  the  perpendicular 
again!  They  failed  to  touch  the  other  side, 
failed  to  touch  bottom,  and  disappeared.  The 
moat  was  fourteen  meters  wide.  The  dismayed 
assaulters  hastened  back  to  Imazawa.  That 
night  a  party  advanced  and  dropped  a  thousand 
bags,  at  one  point,  into  this  terrible  moat. 
These  sand  bags  disappeared,  and  not  a  ripple 
of  their  indent  could  be  seen.  This  sunken  road 
of  Ohaine  baffled  the  army  and  was  the  chief 
reason  that  Port  Arthur  did  not  fall  on  the 
Emperor's  birthday.  Had  they  passed  it,  the 
Two  Dragons  redoubt  would  have  fallen  and 
the  town  could  have  been  entered. 

Those  who  charge  the  Japanese  with  suicidal 
folly  should  remember  that  when  confronted 
with  this  crack  in  the  earth  they  did  not  emulate 
emotional  Frenchmen  at  Waterloo.  They  sat 
down  and  gave  Imazawa  a  chance  to  study. 
They  did  not  die  in  a  climax  of  frenzy.  Their 
sacrifice  is  for  a  grand  and  patriotic  idea.  Sen- 
sational despatches  about  losses  spread  the  belief 
that  they  die  like  flies.  The  truth  is,  they  never 
waste  a  life. 


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NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE        333 

The  use  of  many  successful  inventions  showed 
the  Japanese  equal  to  all  the  progress  of  the  age. 
The  hyposcope  enabled  them  to  observe  what 
went  on  in  the  town,  and  from  203-Meter  Hill 
revealed  the  fleet.  This  is  a  telescope  cut  in 
half,  the  front  elevated  two  feet  above  the  rear 
by  a  further  length  of  scope,  and  the  line  of  vis- 
ion between  made  straight  past  the  angles  by 
two  mirrors.  It  gives  a  lookout  within  a  few 
hundreds  yards  of  the  enemy's  line  a  chance  to 
explore  calmly  at  his  leisure. 

Bombproofs  for  the  generals  were  cut  in  the 
solid  rock  a  thousand  yards  in  advance  of  the 
artillery  and  overtopping  the  firing-line.  Thus 
commanding  officers  could  get  the  traditional 
bird's-eye  view  of  the  battlefield.  Instead  of 
sitting  at  headquarters,  miles  in  the  rear,  as  the 
generals  in  the  North  were  compelled  to  do,  and 
directing  the  action  from  an  office  desk,  as  a 
train-despatcher  regulates  his  system,  the  divi- 
sional, brigade,  and  regimental  commanders 
with  their  own  eyes  could  observe  all  that  was 
going  on.  The  commander-in-chief  had  a  fine 
lookout  in  the  rear  center  of  his  army,  two  and 
a  half  miles  from  the  town  of  Port  Arthur. 


334  PORT   ARTHUR 

From  there  his  eye  glanced  over  as  grand  a  bat- 
tlefield as  the  world  has  yet  produced,  for  within 
an  area  of  ten  square  miles  was  brought  every 
possibility  of  modern  warfare.  Even  cavalry 
maneuvered.  While  his  optic  vision  was  ex- 
traordinary, his  mental  horizon  was  vast  and 
comprehensive.  Telephones  centering  to  a 
switchboard  in  the  next  bombproof  connected 
him  with  every  battery  and  every  regiment  un- 
der his  command.  He  was  in  instant  touch  with 
the  most  outlying  operations,  and,  almost  with 
the  ease  and  certainty  of  Napoleon  at  Austerlitz 
could  march  and  countermarch,  enfilade  and 
assault. 

Telephone  and  post  office  follow  the  flag.  In 
the  advance  of  the  Japanese  army  down  the  pe- 
ninsula, telephone  linesmen  bearing  on  their 
shoulders  coils  of  thin  copper  wire,  not  much 
larger  and  of  no  more  weight  than  a  pack- 
thread, followed  through  the  kaoliang-fields  on 
each  side  of  the  commander.  The  moment  he 
stopped,  a  table  was  produced,  a  receiver  was 
snapped  on  the  wire,  and  a  telegrapher  stood 
ready.  More  remarkable  was  the  advance  of 
the  telephone  into  the  contested  redoubt  of  the 


NEW    SIEGE    WARFARE       335 

Eternal  Dragon,  where  a  station  was  placed  and 
operated  for  four  months,  with  the  Russians 
holding  trenches  only  forty  meters  distant  and 
on  three  sides.  At  this  station,  along  the  front 
of  which  twenty  men  a  day  were  slain  by  sharp- 
shooters, mail  was  delivered  every  time  that  a 
transport  arrived,  which  was  almost  daily.  Men 
on  the  firing-line  received  postal  cards  from 
their  sweethearts  and  mothers  an  hour  before 
death. 

Telephone  and  post  office  followed  the  flag; 
the  Red  Cross  preceded  it.  The  medical  corps 
came,  not  in  the  wake  of  the  army,  but  close  on 
the  heels  of  the  pioneers.  Before  even  the  in- 
fantrymen entered  a  Chinese  village  it  was  ex- 
plored, the  water  of  its  wells  analyzed,  its  houses 
tested  for  bacteria,  and  the  lines  of  encampment 
laid  down.  This  unusual  sanitation  is  looked 
upon  by  surgical  authorities  as  perhaps  the 
chief  cause  of  Japanese  success. 

But  one  could  find  another  cause  of  Japanese 
success,  if  the  analytical  probe  is  to  be  used 
and  the  mystic  impulse  which  gives  men  resolu- 
tion for  supreme  sacrifice  ignored.  This  great 
cause  may  be  called  originality.    The  record  of 


336  PORT   ARTHUR 

superficial  observers  of  her  recent  advance  is 
that  Japan  to-day  selfishly  and  slavishly  reaps 
the  values  wrung  from  time  and  chance  through 
many  centuries  by  other  nations.  If  this  be  true, 
she  is  original  enough  to  survive  the  ordeal  of 
imitation.  Had  a  single  person  shown  the  qual- 
ities displayed  at  Port  Arthur  he  would  be 
charged  with  having  the  audacity  of  genius. 
This  audacity  did  not  hesitate  to  make  use  of 
anything,  new  or  old,  possible  or  impossible, 
conventional  or  unconventional,  which  might 
win  success  from  desperate  conditions. 

Let  me  give  an  instance:  the  problem  that 
faced  Japan's  soldiers  when  they  had  dared  to 
capture  a  minor  position  in  the  fortress's  line  of 
defense.  Audacity  won  it,  originality  held  it. 
The  trench-line  of  this  bloody  angle  of  the  Eter- 
nal Dragon  lay  down  the  slope  and  thus  be- 
neath the  opposing  Russian  trench-line.  The 
maxims  of  assault  declared  it  untenable  unless 
the  contiguous  positions  to  which  it  was  sub- 
sidiary could  be  immediately  taken;  wise  gen- 
eralship seemed  to  dictate  that  it  be  abandoned. 
To  hold  it  would  be  hardly  worth  the  cost.  Na- 
poleon thus  laid  down  in  general  treatise  and 


NEW   SIEGE    WARFARE        337 

Von  Moltke  specifically  so  dictated;  but 
not  Nogi.  Give  him  an  inch  and  he  keeps  it. 
Besides,  he  needed  this  inch  for  his  engi- 
neers. 

In  the  bloody  angle  the  ordinary  sand-bag  re- 
doubt would  not  do.  There  was  no  opportunity 
to  erect  the  permanent  masonry  or  even  the 
semi-permanent  timber  redoubt.  The  men  must 
have  some  protection  that  would  let  their  heads 
be  sheltered  a  foot  or  more  below  the  top  of  the 
trench,  and  yet  give  them  loopholes  for  firing. 
Any  conventional  trench  built  from  experience 
or  laid  down  in  the  text-books  was  impractic- 
able. A  French,  a  German,  an  English,  a  Rus- 
sian soldier  would  have  thrown  up  his  hands  be- 
cause his  father  and  his  grandfather  knew  no 
medicine  for  such  a  hurt.  The  American,  had 
he  been  far  enough  away  from  red  tape,  might 
have  improvised.  The  Japanese  did  not  hesi- 
tate. Around  the  bloody  angle  he  raised  a  trench 
modeled  on  the  medieval  bulwarks  of  his  sam- 
urai fathers.  It  was  built  with  ingenious  quick- 
ness due  to  his  twentieth-century  training.  He 
erected  a  front  of  rock,  like  the  turret  of  a  castle, 
and  through  the  deep  embrasures  of  this  turret 


338  PORT   ARTHUR 

fired  his  machine-guns,  while  the  ragged  sky- 
line overtopped  and  kept  him  safe.  On  the  spot 
he  married  old  with  new.  He  was  follow- 
ing the  destiny  of  his  race — to  tie  the  ages 
together. 


Epilogue 

THE    DOWNFALL 

O 'ADDA— the    Marquis     D'Adda    of 
Rome — had     studied     history    well, 
and  he  declared  that  the  end  would 
come  at  "  ze  psychologique  mo-ment 
— in   ze  wind,   ze   rain,   when   ze   high   spirit 
go  low." 

D'Adda  was  wrong.  Port  Arthur  did  not  fall 
— it  capitulated.  It  was  not  stormed  and  won. 
It  was  worn  out.  The  military  critics  of  the 
world  were  right.  Port  Arthur  is  impregnable, 
and  well  may  some  other  power  some  day  learn 
this,  when  it  is  defended  by  Japanese  soldiery, 
properly  provisioned,  properly  officered,  and 
properly  supplied  with  ammunition.  It  was  be- 
cause the  Japanese  were  ever  vigilant  and  never 
lost  an  opportunity  to  push  their  victorious  arms 
onward  that  they  entered  the  city  as  soon  as  they 
did. 

The  end  came  unexpectedly  with  the  new  year. 
There  was  nothing  dramatic  about  it — nothing 

339 


340  PORT   ARTHUR 

spectacular,  and  he  who  wanted  excitement 
would  have  required  excess  imagination  to  find 
in  the  event  the  dramatic  climax  of  a  great  war. 
When  Port  Arthur  was  taken  ten  years  before, 
it  collapsed  in  a  day,  and  the  unspeakable  car- 
nage before  and  after  furnished  one  of  the  lurid 
chapters  of  history.  Chinese  were  massacred,  the 
town  was  plundered,  and  the  world  rang  with 
outrage.  When  Plevna  fell,  thirty  years  before, 
the  Turkish  prisoners  marched  through  the 
snow,  across  the  Volga,  dropping  thousands  of 
starved,  scurvy-ridden,  frozen  comrades  by  the 
ebbing  mile  stones.  When  Metz  went  down 
a  vast  army  came  to  the  victor,  and  hemisphere- 
resounding  was  the  scandal.  Nothing  of  the 
sort  distinguished  the  surrender  of  Port  Arthur 
on  the  morning  of  January  2d,  1905.  A  stal- 
wart, grim-visaged  soldier  in  Turkoman  cap 
rode  on  a  white  charger  out  of  the  town  to  a 
little  village  on  the  plain,  saluted  his  victorious 
adversary,  and  presented  him  the  beautiful 
white  horse.  The  adversary,  Nogi,  with  ex- 
quisite courtesy,  refused  the  gift.  On  being 
pressed  by  Stoessel,  in  the  Turkoman  cap,  he 
accepted  it  on  behalf  of  his  army.     Compli- 


THE    DOWNFALL  341 

mented  upon  his  achievement  he  replied:  "I 
see  no  reason  for  exaltation — the  cost  has  been 
too  great."  The  next  day  this  courteous  soldier, 
Nogi,  the  soul  of  chivalry,  a  prince  of  leaders, 
marched  in  at  the  head  of  his  worn  but  marvel- 
ous followers.  The  Russians  marched  out,  some 
to  honorable  parole,  and  some  to  tender  care 
among  their  enemies.  There  was  no  massacre, 
no  spectacle,  no  great  dramatic  incident.  War 
had  become  a  business.  It  was  thus  that  these 
two  great  men — Nogi  and  Stoessel — ^wrote 
"  finis "  at  the  close  of  the  first  chapter  of  this 
interesting  new  volume,  called  "  Civilized 
Warfare." 

It  is  less  than  fifty  years  since  Sebastopol  fell, 
and  not  forty  since  Lee  abandoned  the  trenches 
at  Petersburg.  Yet  the  weapons  used  at  these 
memorable  sieges  are  now  as  obsolete  as  the  cat- 
apult and  the  crossbow.  And  yet  Port  Arthur 
was  won  as  were  Tyre,  and  Carthage,  and  Con- 
stantinople. Men  will  charge  on  machine  guns 
as  readily  as  on  crossbows.  Apparently  no  de- 
fensive works  or  engines  can  stop  first-class  sol- 
diers. Nothing  so  well  describes  the  last  few 
days   of   the   great   siege   as   this   letter   which 


342  PORT   ARTHUR 

came  to  me  in  New  York  a  month  after  Stoessel 
started  on  his  way  to  St.  Petersburg.  It  was 
written  by  a  man  whose  whole  knowledge  of 
English  came  from  his  own  countrymen.  His 
position  is  that  of  Adjutant  of  the  Ninth  Divis- 
ion of  the  Third  Imperial  Japanese  Army;  his 
service  that  of  private  secretary  to  Lieutenant- 
General  Oshima,  who  commands  the  division. 

The  letter  is  transcribed,  spelling  and  all,  as 
it  was  written : 

"Near  Port  Arthur, 

''Jan.  3d,  1905. 
"Dear  Sir: 

"At  last  Port  Arthur  strongly  defended  and 
well  known  in  the  world  came  to  the  end  quite 
late  yesterday.  Let  me  tell  you  a  little  about  it. 
After  you  left  here  we  took  front  part  of  Niryu- 
zan  as  far  as  to  the  ditch  which  was  14  meters 
wide  and  deep.  We  made  two  roads  into  the 
ditch  destroying  two  caponires  and  reaching  the 
other  side  of  the  ditch,  we  dug  four  holes  under 
the  Russian  bom-proof — the  holes  were  about 
14  meters  deep.  Then  we  filled  them  up  with  gun 
cotton  to  blow  it  up.  On  the  28th  of  last  month 
we  blew  that  up  using  2.700  kirogram  of  gun 


THE    DOWNFALL  343 

cotton,  at  the  same  time  our  soldiers  made  an 
asolt,  and  took  hold  of  it.  By  that  explosion 
many  Russians,  large  stones,  and  sand  went  up 
high  into  air.  It  was  just  like  a  volcano.  The 
Russians  increased  and  threw  out  many  hand 
granates  and  very  hard  fighting  went  on.  But 
about  5 130  of  that  evening  the  whole  fort  was 
occupied  by  our  men,  after  six  hours  of  con- 
tinual fighting.  After  that  we  opened  the  road 
to  push  out  beyond  Niryuzan.  On  the  31st  the 
first  division  captured  Shojuzan  greatly  helped 
by  our  men  in  Niryuzan.  Before  the  dawn  of 
the  ist  of  this  month  this  division  took  hold  of 
all  Russian  line  from  H.  peak  to  Banryuzan  new 
fort,  except  Bodai.  By  a  severe  attack  of  the 
35th  regiment  at  4:20  of  that  afternoon,  Bodai 
was  taken  by  us.  Though  we  had  a  good  battle 
on  the  happy  new  years  day,  yet  the  rest  of  the 
army  did  not  have  any.  Early  next  morning 
General  Stoessel  sent  in  an  officer  and  had  the 
letter  of  surrend  sent  to  General  Nogi.  On  the 
2nd  negociation  took  place  and  the  battlefield 
began  to  be  entirely  calm,  by  and  by  no  sound  of 
a  rifle.    I  felt  something. 

"  I  really  wished  you  could  stay  here  till  this 


344  PORT    ARTHUR 

time  to  walk  in  together  to  Port  Arthur.  I  got 
slightly  wounded  after  you  left  and  lost  hearing 
of  one  ear.  Wishing  to  see  you  at  Mukden  and 
with  best  regards, 

"  Yours  faithfully, 
"  Lieut.  K.  Hori, 

"9th  Division." 


THE  END. 


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